


30 Day Challenge

by jamlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 day challenge, Angst, Blowjobs, Domestic, Drug Use, Family, Fluff, Injury, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mental Instability, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overdose, Sex, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of ficlets written for the Sheriarty 30 Day Challenge on Tumblr. Collated here for easy reference, more to be added as the month goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

 

**#1: A Day in the Life**

 

A day in the life means a bomb; in _this_ house, _that_ building, under _his_ car. It means watching flames on a screen and not tasting any kind of dust, not feeling heat, not coating his clothes in the ash of any people at all.

A day in his old life meant staring out of a window at the expanse of sky while some teacher droned on and on and _on_ about something he already knew, had already dissected, already absorbed. Endless hours of endless boredom, in an endless youth he almost didn’t make it through.

Tomorrow will mean a dance and a crown, and the whole world learning his name. His heart beats in his chest for the first time in eighteen months. It’ll mean a turned-up collar and a head of messy brown curls, and blue eyes that finally focus on the only thing that matters. 

Some other day will mean the curtain rising on his stage, with the whole world only players. The oldest court in the land, a nation’s media, a game played on the biggest chessboard of them all. But only two pieces worth anything. These are the boards they tread. The spotlight is for them alone.

Until then, a kidnapping here and an assassination there. People are just names on a screen. Rig an election, kill that man’s wife. Arm an uprising, transport some drugs. _Please Jim, will you fix it for me to win this war?_ _Please Jim, fix it for me to steal these plans. Please Jim, make me disappear._

Jim would like to disappear. Jim would like to have never existed, and soon he won’t. Soon the only person who will ever know he was real will be Sherlock Holmes, and he can shout the name Moriarty from every rooftop in London, and no one will believe him. Jim would like to curse him to walk until the end of time, telling people he was real, and never being believed. But he won’t have time. Neither of them have time. They only have each other. 

A van blows up in a marketplace half a tiny world away. Everything’s so small. He can’t taste the blood anymore. He switches the screen off and looks at a picture of Sherlock on his phone. The man is more alive than any scene of death, like he can hear him breathing in his hand. He sends a text, three words, three kisses. He receives one back, and smiles at the reply in kind. Yes, Sherlock. _Yes._

There’s a day in their lives coming, when all that’s left will be them. Moriarty will never have been real. Sherlock will always have been fake. The truth will die as it should, as is fitting, only _right_ : between them alone, a secret only they can understand.

 

 


	2. 3

 

**#3: Drunk Shenanigans**

 

‘Sherlock, what’s wrong?’

‘What do you mean? Why would something be wrong?’

‘Because you’ve got that look on your face again. That ‘I know what’s really going on’ look.’

‘Shouldn’t that be ‘we’?’

‘I think _we_ both realise I don’t have a clue.’ 

John doesn’t look embarrassed to admit it. They’ve done this too many times by now. Though he does add, ‘I thought it looked obvious. Someone tried to blow up the Tate Modern, and failed.’

‘Yessss. That’s what’s odd about it.’

‘Which brings me back to my original question. What’s wrong? You look…worried.’

Sherlock straightens up from his appraisal of the device - though what anyone thought they’d gain from his looking, he doesn’t know. He’s still not an expert on bomb disposal. But there is a clue there, whether the police knew he’d find it or not.

‘Excuse me,’ he says, and leaves John behind, exchanging glances with Lestrade. He strides out along evacuated corridors, heading towards the staff areas, not stopping until he’s out in the alley at the back of the restaurant kitchen. He punches a number into his phone without giving himself time to think.

‘…didn’t think you’d call.’

_Hello_ is for boring people.

‘Are you drunk?’

Jim laughs, which is answer enough. It’s a low sound, and slower than his more manic efforts. Sherlock leans against the wall.

‘How’d you guess, my dear?’

‘How long have you _been_ drunk? And why did you try to wire it yourself in that state? You could have blown yourself to pieces.’

‘But I didn’t! Well done me. Do I get a gold star?’

Sherlock says nothing. He can hear a bottle tapping against a glass, and the pour of more alcohol. It’ll be whiskey, probably. Jim can be such a cliche at times.

‘What gave it away?’

‘The fact that it failed. If you’d wanted to blow the gallery up, you wouldn’t be drunk to begin with. Or you would have got someone else to do it. But you did it yourself, and you had it left somewhere  it could easily be found, but made the case odd enough that Lestrade would call me in. So, Jim-‘

‘…yeeeeees?’

‘-what’s wrong?’

The silence is long, and loaded. Sherlock’s repeated the cliched, _obvious_ , answer a dozen times in his head before Jim says it, hoping to God he won’t say it because that’ll mean he’s truly smashed.

‘What makes you think anything’s wrong?’

There it is. Sherlock suppresses a sigh.

’You’d never usually be this careless. And it’s not the anniversary of the day I jumped, and it’s not my birthday so you’re not trying to entertain me. And you’re not just bored, because otherwise the bomb would have gone off. So…what?’

‘Is ‘I missed you’ a good enough answer to get you off my back?’

‘You don’t want me off your back. Come on, Jim. I have to go back in there with a plausible explanation, and that’ll be easier if I know the truth. You don’t want me to accidentally give them that.’

There’s the sound of a body falling back into expensive leather sofa cushions. Sherlock can envision him perfectly, slumped in his gorgeous living room, with the best drinks and the huge TV, where everything’s light, and pristine, and clean. Uncluttered, empty…

‘…you want me to come over, don’t you? You did this so I’d know you’re lonely.’

‘I’m not _lonely_ , Sherlock. I’m bored.’

‘Nope.’

‘I’m drunk.’

‘Yes. But that’s an outcome, not a cause. And you must have been drunk all day, because…oh. All day. What is it about today that…?’

He trails off, mentally sorting through everything he knows about the man. Which is still not much despite this thing they’ve started, and still haven’t put a name to. 

‘…Jim, is it _your_ birthday?’

There’s another soft laugh. Amused, yes, but also busted. Sherlock sighs. Really, this is ridiculous. Birthdays are ridiculous. 

‘You could have just said so. I’d have bought you a card.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. Anyway, I just wanted to watch you dance around the place with your collar up. It was my present to myself.’ 

There’s a pause while Jim drinks more, and Sherlock starts calculating how long it’ll take to get through town. Though really, it’ll just be a case of putting him to bed. He’s too smashed to enjoy anything else.

‘Look up and give me a wave, darling.’

Sherlock looks up to the CCTV camera, and scowls. ‘You’re worse than Mycroft. I’ve noted the date. Next year I’ll make sure you’re occupied, as long as you promise to be sober. You’re no fun like this.’

‘Come over, and I’ll show you how wrong you are.’

Sherlock eyes the door back into the gallery. Then the camera. Then starts walking towards the street.

‘It’ll take twenty minutes at this time of night. Don’t be asleep when I get there.’

‘As if, my dear. I’ll keep myself awake especially.’

‘Liar.’

‘How dare you.’

Sherlock hangs up with a smirk. And tells himself that if Jim’s still awake in twenty minutes, he’ll eat his deerstalker. Or he’ll…well. There’s no reason hats have to be the only thing on the menu, yes? It is the man’s birthday, after all.

 

 

 


	3. 4

 

**#4: Consulting husbands/boyfriends**

  

 

‘I refuse to go _Milan_. Why on earth would I want to go to _Milan?_  Mycroft can go himself if he’s so desperate. It’s only an ambassador. He hates ambassadors!’

Sherlock growls in frustration, and mimes strangling his brother. Jim slides his gaze down from over the top of his newspaper, and goes back to reading. Sherlock notices, and ignores it.

‘He’s so- - and he never says _please_. He-'

‘-you never say please-‘

‘-always acts like he’s doing me a _favour_ , like I should be _glad_ to go running off to solve one of his stupid murders. And it’ll be some secret service, it always is. Unless it’s-‘

Sherlock whirls suddenly, and scowls at the front page of the newspaper. ‘It’s not you, is it?’

‘No, Sherlock. It’s not me.’

‘Are you _sure?_ Because-‘

‘Am I sure I haven’t murdered the British ambassador to Italy? Uhh…well, it is early and I haven’t finished my coffee. Hold on, it’ll come back to me…’

Sherlock makes an exasperated sound, and flings himself into the opposite chair. Glaring at the back of Jim’s paper is not as much fun as glaring at the man himself, so he bites into some toast and chews in defiance of him. 

‘Anyway, it’s-‘

Jim stands up, closing his ‘paper and folding it over. ‘Sherlock, you don’t have to go to Milan if you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything Mycroft says, if you don’t want to.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Fine. I’ll do it.’

‘…what?’

Jim is fastening his cufflinks, beautiful diamond things that seem incongruous over the breakfast table. ‘I’ll solve your murder. I’ve been needing to see my tailor anyway. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.’

‘ _You_. You can’t…well all right, you probably can, but…hold on, why would you have a tailor in Milan? They’ll dress you up like a peacock. Savile Row’s just around the corner.’

Jim rolls his eyes. ‘One of the benefits of being rich, gay, and me, is that I get to dress however I like. Besides, it’s not for me. It’s for a character.’

‘If you turn up in gold lame, I’m divorcing you.’

The words are barely out of Sherlock’s mouth before there’s a strong hand holding the back of his neck, and he’s being kissed in the sort of way that makes the world melt to nothing and his own name slip from his mind. He surfaces a minute later, Jim’s lips turned soft and easing away, at odds with the sharp mischief in those bottomless brown eyes.

‘No, you’re not.’

Fine. He’s not. Never divorcing him. He makes a sound to acknowledge it and Jim laughs, pecks his cheek and stands up.

‘Give me the file. I’ll solve your murder. You stay here and miss me.’

‘Why can’t I come?’

‘Because you’ve just ranted for ten straight minutes about how much you don’t want to go. I wouldn’t let you come if you fell to your knees and begged, at this point.’

‘I could fall to my knees and-‘

‘I’m showered and dressed. Hold that thought until later.’

Sherlock scowls. ‘Boring.’

‘…pay for _that_ later as well.’ 

Jim puts his cup in the dishwasher, and starts scrolling through messages on his phone. Sherlock watches him, put out, but curious as to why he’d volunteer to help.

‘Why-‘

‘-because you won’t shut up about it, you don’t want to go, it’ll piss Mycroft off and that’s always funny, I’ll do it quicker than you-‘

'-you bloody won’t-‘

‘-and as I said; tailor. Also…’

‘What?’

Sherlock’s phone beeps. He snatches it up, still glaring at Jim who’s grinning now, and nodding at the screen.

‘…look over that plan for me, would you darling? It’s one of Moran’s, and her appalling grammar gives me a headache. You can correct it and pick holes in the the thing at the same time.’

He gives it a glance. An extortion racket in South Africa involving diamonds, a drug ring, and linking to a coup in the Sudan. Hmmm.

‘You should never trust something like this to Moran.’

‘I’m not.’ Jim’s back at his side, raking fingers through his hair. Sherlock lifts his face for the kiss without thinking, eyes still on the screen. ‘I’m trusting it to you.’

‘I’m not a criminal.’

Jim laughs against his lips, and picks his keys up off the table. 

‘And I’m not a detective, but here we are.’

‘Fine. Yes. Whatever. What time will you be home?’

‘Before midnight. Make sure you wait up, darling.’

‘Oh, I suppose so.’

Jim’s laugh carries all the way through the house. Sherlock looks up from his phone long enough to smile at the door, and feel a pang of longing when the car starts outside. But midnight’s less than a day away. And it’ll take that long to make sense of Moran’s writing, good _God_ , why does Jim let her get away with it? No skill with a rifle is worth wading through this rubbish. 

 

 

 

 


	4. 5

**#5: Cooking**

 

He’s lost count of how many days he’s been here. He’s lost all sense of time, self, being; minutes measured by the furtive murmurs of, ‘cookin’ up?’ from right and left. Sometimes they’re directed at him, and he tries to explain that heroin is not his drug of choice, cocaine is pure and he’s doing it for a _reason_ , not like them who just need it, live on it, simultaneously exist and don’t exist because of it. His words trip out too fast and their brains are too slow even without the smoke dulling them further. He’s the only one alive in this place, fizzing with neurons tripped together and connecting like points of electricity along an endless wire, his mind and thoughts stretching on and on into infinity, where everything clicks into place and _shines_ , letting him fly above everything, at a speed which finally comes close to the pace his mind operates at every minute of every day. He feels free like this, cocooned in a make-believe world that can actually keep up.

The trouble is staying there. The flight fades too soon: cocaine is not the drug for a prolonged ride. He has to take more to live like that, so he does, and then more, and then people try to talk to him and it’s like one sentence takes a year, their mouths shaping vowels as slowly as if they’re sinking into mud and he’s sitting on safe ground, screaming at them to drown faster. And even his own brain lets him down after some interminable time has passed. It gets tired as all stupid _body_ things do, won’t go at the pace he needs but won’t let him sleep either, so he’s stuck in endless nowhere, where the only thing to sustain his thoughts is the bread and butter of his own existence. He chews on his classes and spits them out; dissects his family and falls into rage; separates the compounds of human behaviour he’s forced to endure all around, keeps what may be useful and discards the rest. Love, care, emotion; sex, family, attachment; all thrown away. But they were lost before he came here. Mycroft said so. He loses them again, just to be sure.

‘C _ookin’ up, cookin’ up? It’ll calm you down._ ’

Will it? Yes. Maybe. Heroin is a suppressant. He could sleep, and then fly again. He sits up on his mattress, shivers against the light of candles reflecting off spoons, the chink of needles and rustle of foil, and nods and nods and nods, _yes, all right_ , and wonders how long he’s been here and whether Mycroft will have started looking yet. Yes, no, maybe, who cares? He’s handed a needle and uses it without even checking if it’s new.

The world slows. His brain calms. The room spins, and he falls and falls and falls, through the mattress and through the floor, through the ceiling above and down and down and when he’s falling too far and too fast, when everything’s turning black and closing in, he claws at the air and finds nothing to grasp, nothing he can cling to, nothing to stop him sinking forever…

 

…

 

‘I’ve got you.’

He gasps awake.

His face hurts like someone slapped it. He can’t focus. Can’t see. There’s only a voice, soft and amused, whispering breath across his ear.

‘It’s all right, Sherlock. You’re all right.’

‘Mycroft?’

‘No. But he’s coming.’

He recognises the _tap tap tap_  of a fingernail on glass. All his syringes are plastic. He tries to say _no_ and roll away, but his limbs are full of sand and his head won’t stop rolling on his neck. There’s a siren somewhere on the edge of hearing, a klaxon saying _danger…danger…danger…_ but the arms around him are tight and warm, they keep him from flying but keep him from sinking too.

‘…happened?’

‘You were a silly boy. A very silly boy. But it’s all right now.’

‘…re you?’

His mouth won’t work. The noise is closer, closer, and the whisper turns into a soft laugh against his neck.

‘I’m not real. It’s all in your head, darling.’

‘…no.’

The grip around his chest loosens. He feels himself lowered to the floor. But it’s solid, and he’s not going to fall through. His fingertips press to creaking floorboards, and scratch there until they bleed, until he can feel the pain of them. A needle slips into his arm.

‘This’ll help. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.’

His eyes fall closed. There’s a ghost of lips across his cheek, dreamed, not touching. There’s only the voice.

‘It was never going to end like this, my dear. Rehab’s calling.’

The words come from further away, sing-songed in gentle tones. His ears strain for them, but the siren is louder and louder. 

‘And I’m on the other side. I’ll wait, Sherlock. I’m watching you.’

Blue lights flash across the wall. 

‘I promise it’ll be worth it.’

Reality crashes in; voices, boots, his own name called over and over, lights flashed into his eyes. Mycroft stands above them all.

But he’s sure he didn’t imagine the voice. A glimpse of dark eyes. One door that shuts as paramedics burst through the other. He thinks he’s sure. 

Not sure enough.

 

 

 

The room he wakes in is very white. It’s almost as white as Mycroft’s face, but nowhere near as cold as his tone when Sherlock tells him to go away.

‘Is that the thanks I get for saving your life, little brother?’

Their eyes meet. Sherlock turns away first, curling under the blanket with his back to the world. 

_(It’s not real.)_

‘It’s all the thanks you expect, Mycroft.’

_(It was never going to end like this.)_

‘Now _please_ go away. I’m going to sleep.'

An umbrella taps on the floor. Footsteps. A door.

‘You’ll be taken to an appropriate clinic in the morning, Sherlock. Don’t think about leaving before then.’

 

_(I’m watching…)_

Sherlock smiles, and closes his eyes.

 

_(I promise it’ll be worth it.)_

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, brother mine.’

 

 

 


	5. 6

**#6: Phone Call**

 

 

London’s quiet when Sherlock’s phone rings. It’s 2am. John went to bed hours ago, and Sherlock…well, he’s trying to sleep. But he’s been restless all day, unable to settle even with his violin, even with the afterglow of the Baskerville case taking the edge off his need to work. He tried some experiments, but lost interest before really getting started. He read through some cases from a hundred years ago, but couldn’t focus on the words. He’s been puttering all day, feeling like something’s coming, like he’s waiting for an event he has no right to expect.

When the screen says _number blocked_ , his chest unclenches. It could be anything, of course. It could be a client. It could be a wrong number. But it isn’t.

‘Hello?’

The breath on the other end of the line is soft. Sherlock relaxes into his pillows, and closes his eyes. There’s no response, but there doesn’t need to be. This is enough, for both of them.

 

*

 

Jim lies on his sofa with the lights dimmed to almost nothing. He can see London from here, one wall of his living room nothing but glass. The city is quiet, warm with late-Spring heat. Not much is moving, and for once he doesn’t dream of waking it up with bombs and fire. Tonight, he has no need to see it burn. He’s tired. His face aches with the memory of well-aimed fists. There’s a glass of whiskey with ice cubes melting into it, sitting next to a bottle he’s only just opened. He wants to go to bed, but that means moving, brushing teeth, removing clothes. It’s too much effort. He can’t muster the will.

Sherlock breathes softly at this time of night. Jim listens with his eyes closed, and imagines that great brain ticking over, wonders what he must be thinking. They don’t do this. Don’t phone each other. They could, but they don’t.

They could do a lot of things, but they don’t.

‘Are you all right?’

He sounds concerned. Jim’s not used to anyone sounding concerned over him. He’s not sure how to feel about it; also not sure if the question’s being asked because of the phone call, because Jim’s not speaking, or because he knows where he’s been, and what he’s endured. Perhaps it’s both.

‘Can’t sleep,’ he says, and knows he’ll be understood. There are nights when either of them could be tired enough to die on their feet, and their minds still won’t grant them peace. Sherlock understands. He doesn’t have to have watched him for years to know that.

There’s a rustling of sheets. Jim wonders what he’s wearing, and how long he’s been lying there. He could just put a camera in the room, but it doesn’t feel right. He doesn’t want that knowledge to be stolen. He wants it given.

Sherlock’s voice rumbles out, quiet in the stillness of the night. 

‘Tell me about your day.’

‘You know I can’t.’

‘Not those bits. The other things.’

‘Oh.’

Jim pauses, and thinks.

‘I found a great little Italian place for lunch. You could hardly fit four people inside, but the food could have come straight from Rome.’

‘Mmm. I like Italian. You should text me the address.’

‘All right.’

They could meet up there. Not talk about any of the things that are dangerous. Never once allude to what’s coming. It could work.

Except it couldn’t, because they’re them. Sherlock wouldn’t stop digging, and he’d never stop teasing. It’s the only relationship they have - - apart from this one, when no one else is involved, watching them, monitoring what they do. When it’s just them, tired, on a quiet night in London.

 

*

 

Sherlock has turned onto his side, knees drawn up to his chest. The phone rests on his pillow, the microphone angled to be next to his lips. The speaker lets out each of Jim’s easy breaths; if he shuts his eyes, he can almost imagine him next to him. When did he start imagining that? He has no idea, and the notion isn’t as terrifying as it should be.

‘What did you do today?’ he hears, and the exhaustion in Jim’s voice makes him worry a loose thread between his fingers. He wonders if Mycroft went too far. It’d be unlike him; his brother’s too good at this game, and pushing Jim past a limit would be disastrous all around. But neither of them know Jim’s limits, or even if he has any. They knew it would be difficult to gauge when they planned it.

‘I couldn’t find anything to satisfy me. I don’t have a case on. I just wasted time.’

‘I know that feeling.’

‘Yes.’

It’s a lie. A platitude. He can’t imagine Jim wasting time, but how would he know? He only has the bare minimum to go on; a few minutes next to a pool, phone calls via someone else’s voice. The knowledge of what genius feels like in a world composed of mundane minds. They’ll always have that in common.

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘Not really. I opened a bottle, but I don’t want it.’

‘You sound tired.’

‘I am. I’m very tired.’

Jim’s voice is without edges. There’s no mania. It’s almost sad. Sherlock wants to reach out and touch it, feel what it’s like when there’s nothing to make it sharp. Sink into it, wrap around it. Keep it like this. Stop it ever having to scream in rage again.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘You’re already doing it.’

 

*

 

This is a sign of weakness, of course. But it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like an acknowledgement; Sherlock gets this, and Jim gets it in return. The fact he’s called means that Sherlock can call. It’s something for them both. If it had been rejected, or been answered with anger, wariness, scorn, fear, he would have just hung up and never tried again. But it’s this, and it’s okay.

‘You don’t have to talk.’

It should feel foolish. But it doesn’t.

‘Just don’t hang up.’

 

*

 

Sherlock touches the edge of the phone with his finger. He’d smile, but it’s not funny, and there’s nothing to feel superior about. How many nights has he lain in silent torment, wishing anyone would understand what it’s like to never know peace? Trying to explain it is worse. The blank looks, the instructions to try warm milk, the lack of comprehension - they’re enough to make it clear that explanations only lead to awkwardness, and embarrassment. Even Mycroft never climbed down far enough to help. When he can’t sleep, he works. He doesn’t understand why sometimes, that’s not enough.

Jim’s breathing is slower still. Verging on sleep, he thinks. He runs the polished edge of metal and glass along the pad of his finger, and wonders what the curve of Jim’s ear would feel like.

‘I won’t hang up.’

 

*

 

Sherlock wakes to a blank screen on his phone. He watches it for a long time. There’s no sound from it. The battery died in the night.

When he plugs it in later, he’s told the phone call lasted three hours and forty-seven minutes. He smiles at the display, swiping his thumb gently across the glass. He’s not surprised when it vibrates a moment later, and a text from a blocked number gives him the address of an Italian restaurant in Camden. Even less surprised that the text has three kisses, and is signed _ty._  

No initials needed for that call. That one wasn’t part of the game.

 


	6. 7

**#7: Smut**

  
****

 

The first time they have sex, Jim walks Sherlock through it, turning a blind eye to the nerves the man is trying hard not to show. Jim is gentle, Sherlock is tentative, hands and mouths soft and unsure, both so careful not to break the other; both so aware they are trusting something to the only other who can end them.

The second time they have sex, Sherlock is a different man. He is a genius, defined by his ability to learn. Jim expects a step forward from the last time, and receives a leap; his head back, Sherlock’s teeth on his throat as he howls to the ceiling, pushed and pushed and _pushed_ over the edge, time and again. It is everything he hadn’t known he wanted, but he comes away from it with more fear than joy, more unease than pleasure. And Jim Moriarty hates being afraid.

Sex has always been easy, and boring. He’s a man who can be any other man, who wears people like others wear clothes. He slips in and out of personas in barely the time it takes to blink. He’s a good boyfriend, a supportive boyfriend, a self-confident boyfriend; a bad one, a shy one, a nervous one; he will take a woman to a wedding and dance in perfect step, he will melt into a gay club dance floor and fuck a bear in a bathroom stall, making them scream whatever false name he’s giving out tonight. He’ll frighten an abusive ex, he’ll be an abusive current, he’ll be a selfish lover or the most generous one anyone will ever not _really_ meet. Because he’s never Jim. He’s whatever he has to be, whatever a job, or a mood, dictates he be.

He doesn’t always get off. He gets bored. Jim’s an actor who’s never off-stage, but sometimes, when it’s dark, they can’t see his face and they’ll just be a body moving against his, and his mind will slip back to what he really is, the person they never see. He remembers that they’re nobody. He remembers they don’t matter, and the job he’s on means nothing, and suddenly he’s terrified their banality will rub off on him; that if he stays here too long he’ll sink into a life just like theirs. It reminds him of the years of playing normal when he was a teenager, so normal he had to go out and _do_ something at regular intervals, just to prove to himself which life was real. He can only play the boyfriend for so long. He prefers one-night stands; he enjoys kink for the novelty. He’s a _very_ convincing sadist. And he takes pain beautifully. Too beautifully. He let one enthusiast nearly kill him, once. He’d remembered that none of it meant anything.

But Sherlock is different. The sex started two weeks after the pool, when the man finally called that number. Jim didn’t think he would. And when he did, he didn’t think it would be anything but another exchange of warnings and threats, possibly ending in violence. But it ended in dinner bought from a cheap takeaway, and half an hour staring at each other over a picnic bench in Hyde Park. The next night ended in a hotel, with Sherlock breathless and shaking, gently - but thoroughly - deflowered. And it wasn’t perfect, but it was _right_. Just not as right as the hour they spent watching each other in silence afterwards. 

And now Jim is scared, but he wouldn’t back away for the world. He’s never scared, but if he were he’d fling himself into it gladly, just for the novelty. And he is. He does. It’s horrible and it’s perfect, and Sherlock…he doesn’t know. He doesn’t _understand_ , so Jim has to go back again and again, and touch that body and watch those eyes watching him, and try to make him _see_.

He comes to Baker Street when he knows John is out. And because John is out, Sherlock knows he’ll come. In all senses of the word; he’s barely through the door before his trousers are at his knees, and he’s moaning Sherlock’s name with a hand in his hair, a hot flush rising from under the collar of his pristine shirt. He wants to tell him to stop so they can go to bed, but comes long before the words start to form. Sherlock is smug, pleased with himself. Jim is a learning experience for him, which Jim hates him for, wants to kill him for, but can’t and won’t. So he says, ‘do you want to learn-‘ and Sherlock says _yes_ before the sentence is finished. Irene Adler becomes the _second_ person to beat Sherlock Holmes with a stick. The second person to rip his collar open and climb onto his lap. But she never gets to do the things Jim does, and Jim knows a lot of things to do. Sherlock absorbs them all with that intense focus he’s famed for. Jim wants to stick his fingers into his eyes and make them bleed. Jim leaves the bedroom with a cheeky grin and a wave, every time, blowing kisses to the air. Jim feels like a science project. A collection of chemical compounds. A whore.

And then: Mycroft. A cell for weeks and weeks. It’s a welcome reprieve. Jim scratches that name on the wall, endless, endless, endless. He dreams of burning Sherlock’s heart so he’ll know what it’s like to be on fire. The way to do it is not through his cock, no matter how much he makes him scream. No, to win this game he’ll need to give more of himself. But Sherlock doesn’t want more of him. It’s a game, it’s always been a game, and Jim can’t moan because he’s the one who started it. But he never expected it to lead to this. He never thought Sherlock would climb down from his ivory tower, and be quite so good at holding Jim down by the throat, giving him exactly what he needs. He’s never bored. Never, ever bored. 

He puts the game in play. The final game. Final-ish. Final for now. Final enough. Jim’s tired, and burnt out long ago, a husk operating on the power of intellect and a sharp suit, reputation more than enough to carry his own dead weight. He dreams of being free, except there is no such thing and Sherlock’s the only prison that matters now.

‘You’re quiet tonight.’

He stirs, chin lifting from his folded hands, forearms tangled in Sherlock’s blanket. He nods thanks at the cup of tea set on the nightstand, and rolls to watch Sherlock undress. He’s smiling. He likes being watched. Jim fails to reciprocate.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘You’re awfully pleased with yourself. It was only a painting.’

‘What makes you think-‘ Sherlock is on hands and knees, nuzzling at Jim’s inner thigh, ‘-I’m pleased about the painting?’

He gets a lot of satisfaction from turning Jim on. He loves making him come more than anything. Jim suspects Sherlock knows other people can’t always do it. It’s _so_ nice to be a notch on that endless ego, but it doesn’t stop him gasping as lips close over the head of his cock, as that clever tongue swipes a firm line over skin that’s been stretched tight for the last ten minutes. He wants to push him away because this is all too close, it’s always been wrong, but his hands betray him and curl into Sherlock’s hair instead, pull him down instead of force him up. His thoughts melt under the heat. It’s a kind of peace. Almost.

‘What’s wrong, Jim?’

He lets his head fall to the side, allows eye contact over the heaving slope of his chest. Sherlock’s lips drop warm air over his erection, but at least he’s not smiling now.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘This? Or… _this?_ ’ A hand gesture meant to encompass _all of this_. It’s a question they don’t ask. The game is what it is, they are what they are. What else are they going to do with their time? ‘I might ask you the same thing. Wasn’t it your idea?’

‘It wasn’t either of our idea. It just happened.’

It’s the first admission he’s made that he didn’t plan this. By inference, Sherlock will be able to tell that he is the one thing in Jim’s entire life he hasn’t planned. Was not expecting. Possibly - probably - does not know what to do with. 

Except that would be a mistake, because Jim always knows what to do with things that refuse to be handled. And that’s a plan already in place, but they have some time before it happens.

Sherlock kisses up his body, but his lips are distracted. Jim lets his knees fall open anyway. He watches without moving as a condom and lube is applied, and slides his hands across Sherlock’s shoulders as he’s taken. It’s gentler than usual. He’s almost grateful, almost hates it. Almost goes soft.

‘You feel good.’

‘That’s your answer?’

‘No. I’m just saying. You feel good.’

Sherlock’s never said it before. He’s never had to. Jim smiles a bit anyway, and twists a lock of hair between his fingers. Pleasure is a warm pulse between his legs, radiating gently up his spine.

‘Jim?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Why are _you_ doing this?’

Good question. Easy answer. It’s because they couldn’t stop watching each other. All those hours without words. The way there’s no need to explain insomnia, or mania, or madness; no need for small talk or platitudes, no excuses necessary when there’s no touch for days and then nothing _but_ touch for days; because Sherlock Holmes is beautiful, and brilliant, and his brain is a high Jim can - will, fully intends to - ride for the rest of his life.

He curls his legs around Sherlock’s waist, holds him in tight, and kisses a moan off his lips.

‘You’re my favourite waste of time, darling.’

It gets a laugh, a kiss, a nip at his throat. Jim has no idea if Sherlock recognises the song lyric, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the sort of answer he’s expected to give. It’s not good enough - to win this game, he’ll need to give more of himself. To answer questions like that honestly. But there’s time yet; there’s a banker to rescue and Ricoletti to find, and then the show at the Tower. Sex is never going to tell the truth between them. Their game is one of two minds that meet far above the world, and such mundane matters as this. This is just…

…he doesn’t know what this is. He’s scared of what this is. He thinks it should have brought them closer by now, but he watches Sherlock’s face go taut with pleasure, feels his body straining against his, and all he can think of is how much more intimate it will be to reveal his final plan. How this is just-

‘Jim. _Oh_ , Jim…fuck…’

Sherlock sags against him. Jim lowers his mouth to his shoulder, and kisses it. It feels good. He tastes good. He lost his erection ten minutes ago. 

(Sometimes they’ll just be a body moving against his, and his mind will slip back to what he really is, the person they never see.)

‘You haven’t come.’

Sherlock’s tone is accusatory. Jim puts a hand on his jaw, and and draws his mouth round to kiss it.

‘I’m just tired, darling. It’s not your fault.’

‘Do you want me to-?’

For the first time since their first night, Sherlock’s expression is unsure. It’s a good look on him. Jim runs a hand across his chest, leaving it over his heart. He imagines it burning in his hand. He thinks of his own, bursting gradually over all these years, the seams popping every time Sherlock failed to see what was literally right in front of him.

‘No. It’s all right.’

The softest of kisses. The most gentle of smiles.

‘I can finish myself off.'

 

 

 

  

 


	7. 7a

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Companion to the previous chapter, this one from Sherlock's POV. But still not very smutty, sorry!

 

**#7(a): Smut**

 

 

 

Sherlock tries not to think about the first time they had sex. He hates admitting he doesn’t know things, hates looking inadequate. And of all the people he hates looking _less_ in front of, Jim Moriarty has become number one, the only person who can beat Mycroft into second place. 

He would delete the whole experience from his hard drive, remove all evidence of his unsteady voice and shaking hands. But that would mean erasing the light in Jim’s eyes - triumph, yes, and that’s embarrassing - but there was a joy to it as well. He’d been far softer than Sherlock would have predicted, if he’d predicted such a thing at all. And there’s very little joy to be seen these days. He doesn’t want to lose that memory.

He’d come away from that hotel room and thrown himself into research to make sure he’d never look so weak again. Magazine articles, blog posts, porn. That was the work for an entire week, nothing but sex, nothing but how to please a man. He’d gone back to him confident, and fell in love with the way he made him howl. It had been Jim’s turn to look unsteady, and Sherlock would be lying if he said there was nothing satisfying about it. It was more than satisfying. It was beautiful. It was something to share, but it felt like winning too.

Sherlock’s always liked to win, but this is a game he’s never felt inclined to play. He wouldn’t now, but it’s _Jim_. He’s an addiction, a brand new drug. He’s light and fire, twisting underneath and over him, uncatchable, untouchable, even when their bodies are writhing together. That mind, all perfectly organised chaos; he wants to dive into it and roll around, and knows that he’d be lost in there because it’s an ever-changing landscape that’s impossible to pin down. He doesn’t want to pin it down. He wants to watch it, to taste it, to feel it wrapped around his. But Jim won’t let him, and he can’t find a way in. Sex is the closest he can come, and even that’s different now. Even that changes every time.

They fuck in Baker Street, in hotels, in the occasional car, in nameless flats Jim has access to across the city. Sherlock draws orgasms out of him like they’re his to take, chasing them like the next one might be the key to unlocking his brain. Jim gave them willingly at first, but they’re part of the game now; Sherlock understands this without it ever having to be spoken. He has to work a little harder for each one, because Jim retreats a step with every explosion in his mouth, in his body, against his stomach, on his hand. Sherlock kisses him to try and bring him back, but those dark eyes are veiled and not as shiny as they were. He doesn’t know how to bring the light back; it’s frustrating for a man who’s used to getting everything he goes after, who solves every puzzle. Jim’s body is always solvable, but his thoughts are locked somewhere far distant and Sherlock doesn’t know if a key exists, let alone where he might find it.

Jim goes away for weeks. Sherlock would worry if he didn’t know exactly where he is. Mycroft is looking for a different key, and is using different methods to find it. When he’s finally released, Sherlock asks to see where he was kept. He needs to be able to envision it, so he can place that missing time and Jim within it. He expects a cell. He does not expect a cell with his own named carved all over it. What did he use to scrape those letters? He wouldn’t be allowed anything sharp. It’s an irrelevant detail but it picks at him nonetheless, perhaps to distract from the expression on Mycroft’s face as he shows him the room. Big Brother will know what such a display means, he always does. Sherlock touches the individual sections of his own name, part of his identity spewed out for everyone to read. He chose his name. It’s part of the carefully constructed image of Sherlock Holmes. Jim understands that. Jim is a different man to James, after all.

They meet in a house in Kensington, each pretending the absence didn’t happen. Sherlock wraps his arms around a man much quieter than he should be, takes his pulse, measures the rise and fall of his chest as he puts his hand inside his trousers. He makes Jim arch against him and buck into his fist, and wants him to laugh after he’s come, like he used to. He sags instead, breathless, tired, and doesn’t try to kiss him. Sherlock nips at his neck with loose and hungry lips, aware of that great mind ticking over only a few meagre inches away from his own and no closer to knowing what it thinks. He lets Jim have him half an hour later, squeezes until he’s incoherent and rutting behind him, smiles and thinks _that’s better_ as he releases against the sheets. Jim is grinning as he leaves, blows kisses to the air, and Sherlock wonders why it doesn’t feel like it should. The answer eludes him, and he’s not surprised there’s no further contact for a month.

‘You’re quiet tonight.’

Sherlock does not feel quiet. _Falls of the Reichenbach_ is even now on it’s way back to its gallery, and he’s alive with the adrenaline of solving a beautiful puzzle, almost elegant, almost worthy of Jim Moriarty himself if it weren't clear he’d had nothing to do with it. He sets a cup of tea on the nightstand, his one concession to normality in these proceedings  - and only because he was thirsty - and starts to undress. Jim rolls to his back to watch. He’s always liked watching, and Sherlock likes eyes on him. He discovered this early on. Not just any eyes, though. Jim’s eyes. He likes having his undivided attention when it’s like this, just the two of them, no one else getting hurt because of their games. 

There’s a dimness to him that doesn’t usually set in until after the sex. Sherlock drops clothes to the floor, and is compelled to ask, ‘what’s wrong?’

‘You’re awfully pleased with yourself. It was only a painting.’

Sherlock’s as close to happy as he gets. A job well done, an interesting case, another opportunity to try and unlock the man spread in front of him. The best puzzle, really. And beautiful. Sherlock’s never been one to appreciate the human form, but this is an exception. He nuzzles at Jim’s inner thigh, his tongue thick with the memory of taste. It’s been a month. He wants it again.

‘What makes you think I’m pleased about the painting?’

He is. But he’s more pleased about _Jim_. He’s thinner than before the prison, and there wasn’t much of him to start off with. Ribs clearly show, and his hipbones jut against stretched skin. He should feel bad about enjoying the aesthetic, really, but it’s a good look on him. Not _right;_ he looks gaunt, less himself, less rich and well-fed. Feral, almost. A glimpse of something he probably never was, but also manages to always be. There’s always been a wildness to Jim Moriarty, the man who does exactly whatever the fuck he pleases. Sherlock fastens his lips on the thin skin pulled over his pelvis just to get a gasp, and then murmurs with satisfaction as he closes his mouth around his cock. Jim’s fingers sink into his hair and _pull_ , and Sherlock is as happy to devour him as ever. But the grip drops away after a few minutes and he’s drifting again, no matter that his length is thick and pulsing on the bed of Sherlock’s tongue.

‘What’s wrong, Jim?’

Eye contact. Another rarity. Sherlock craves it because it’s denied more often than not, and because Jim has glorious eyes; even if they weren’t expressive and perfectly under the control of the mind behind them, they’re just beautiful. The first time they had sex, he was allowed to stare into them for a full hour. These days, he’s lucky to get a glance.

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘This, or… _this?_ ’

The blowjob is self-explanatory. Jim has to know how much he loves getting him off, how much satisfaction there is in pleasing him. And in making such a man lose control of himself, there’s that too. It’s not power over him exactly, not real power. But it’s good. The other _this_ is harder to find a reply to, and he’s not going to try. Jim doesn’t want an answer. It’s not the sort of riddle that can be talked out: they’re doing this because they’re doing this, because they enjoy each other more than they can admit in words; because it’s not possible for two minds to melt into one, and they’re too similar and too different to compromise their way into finding a way to be together properly. _This_ lets them get close. _This_ is something to share. They both win doing _this_.

Jim doesn’t move as he enters him. There’s a tired sigh, and Sherlock waits. He’ll stop, if asked. But then arms go around him and legs pull him in tighter, a nonsense line uttered; pleasure warms its way up his nerves and he melts into him as best he can, the only way he knows how to. It’ll be all right in the moment of climax. There’s freedom from thought there, for both of them. He sets his mind on it, his mouth on Jim’s neck, losing himself in the clench of his body. It’s good; it’s always good.

But there’s no freedom this time. Sherlock comes with a desperate thrust that robs him of breath, and Jim doesn’t come at all. It feels like failure because it is, and he doesn’t know how to make it right. All he can do is offer.

‘Do you want me to-?’

 _No_ is written all over his face. Sherlock tells himself he doesn’t care, and it’s not a reflection on him, on _them_. Except it is. Whatever this is, it’s not working any more. He wants to put his hands on Jim’s cheeks, and make him look. He wants to tell him that nothing is as exciting as this, these days. That as soon as a case is finished his thoughts return to the taste of him, the remembrance of touch, the heat of his body bucking against him. He dreams of his cries, and falls asleep hearing Jim’s breath against his ear, gasping and desperate, as _he_ is gasping and desperate, touching himself to gain some relief from this relentless need. 

He wants to tell him that he’s doing this because he enjoys it, enjoys being with him, gets so much more comfort from it than he can ever express in words. It’s a puzzle and understanding, wrapped in one delicious package. Endlessly fascinating, always worth exploring. Something he will never, ever got bored of.

‘I’ll finish myself off.’

Sherlock nods, and sits cross-legged between his knees.

‘Let me watch, at least?’

Jim cocks his head to the side. 

‘Why?’

‘Oh, you know me-‘ he smiles in an attempt at real humour, and knows it only comes out wry, ‘-I can’t resist a good performance.’

It gets a chuckle that holds no humour. Sherlock puts his hands on Jim’s thighs, and bites his lip to stop a murmur of appreciation at the sight of that hand, tight and quick, fingers rippling up the length.

‘Don’t worry, Sherlock. I’ll always put on a good show for you.’

Even said lazily, hazed with pleasure, it’s not a reassurance. Sherlock’s gaze flits up to find Jim’s eyes steady on him, gazing out from under half-closed lids. The heat in the room seems to fade, and a shudder works over his skin. But he doesn’t look away. He won’t back down. Whatever’s coming, he’ll face it and he refuses to be afraid. In the meantime, they have this, and he won’t let go of it. Not until he’s forced to. Not until Jim’s had enough, and leaves him far behind.

 

 

 

 


	8. 9

 

**#9: Games**

 

 

‘I’m not playing Twister with you, Jim.’

Jim - sprawled on the sofa, a leg hooked over the back and head hanging off the side - pouts like a child, and affects a sulky expression.

‘Why not?’

‘You know, for the world’s most dangerous criminal, you have a distinct lack of dignity at times.’

‘Yes. It’s part of my charm.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but the touch of a smile at the corner of his mouth admits it. Yes, it’s part of his charm. Damn him.

‘Anyway, look who’s talking. You walk into Buckingham Palace in a sheet.’

‘Fair point.’

‘So…Twister?’

‘No. It’ll only end in sex.’

‘… _will_ it, Sherlock? Wow. I didn’t think of _that_.’

‘Oh, shut up. You can see I’m busy.’

He is not, in fact, busy. This case from 1882 can probably wait another few hours to be solved, if he’s really honest with himself. But it’s always funny to tease Jim - at least when nothing’s likely to get blown up as a result - and having him around Baker Street with John out of the country is a fascinating experience.

‘I’m not playing Operation with you. You’ll only compare my performance to Mycroft’s.’

‘…if you’re going to say things like that, think about your phrasing. Chess?’

Jim is laughing, all easy smile and spread-out limbs. Sherlock can think of a game or two he’d be happy with, but…not yet.

‘I did think about my phrasing. And no, not chess. You’ll be no challenge at all.’

‘Oh? You think I’m lacking in terms of long-term strategy?’

‘No. I think I’m a maths genius who once spent a year memorising every possible move on a chess board-‘

‘-impossible, they’re infinite-‘

‘-and the mathematical probability of you beating me is so small, I can’t even be bothered…actually, that might be an interesting number, hang on…’

Sherlock rolls his eyes again but still watches, fascinated, as Jim’s eyes unfocus and his mind goes wherever it goes when he’s being brilliant. It remains the most attractive sight he’s ever seen, even when - especially when - it’s focused on making Sherlock’s life difficult. 

‘Hmm. Too many variables. Lend me your computer.’

‘Not a chance.’

‘I’m not going to hack it, Sherlock. I just want to write a program to figure this out.’

‘I’m not lending you my computer so you can work out how much more likely you are to beat me at something. Anyway, who cares? You’re probably better at chess than me. I admit it. Move on.’

‘No. No no no. I have to figure it out now, it’ll annoy me.’

Sherlock stands up as Jim swings his legs down, clearly about to stop being lazy and start hyper-focusing on something of no importance at all. There’s only one thing for it.

‘What’re you doing?’

He looks down into Jim’s eyes, half-present and half running numbers. His hair’s all spiky too, and he hasn’t shaved since yesterday. Sherlock smiles and flattens one of the more outrageous peaks, even as he leans down and pulls a box out from under the coffee table.

‘Twister.’

‘You said _no._ It’ll only lead to-‘

Sherlock silences him with a kiss, firm enough to make Jim’s fingers scrabble for a hold on his dressing gown before their lips melt into something softer, deeper.

‘-sex.’

‘Yeeeees.’ He grins, and tosses the box onto the floor as he pushes Jim down to the cushions. ‘The thought did cross my mind.’

‘ _Finally_.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

 

 


	9. 8 & 10

 

 

**#8: Unsent/Unread. #10: Break up**

 

 

Jim looks white, and hollow-eyed, and far too thin. The skin under his eyes has the translucent look of recently healed bruises, where the colour has faded but the layers are not yet recovered enough to seem whole. He doesn’t sleep. He paces whatever room he’s in, operating on adrenaline and temper, and all the more dangerous for it. His hands twitch. His neck must hurt from the constant stretching, a tic that only worsens the more tired he is.

He balls himself up at the end of the sofa, persuaded into soft clothes by the dream of rest. When he does close his eyes, Sherlock watches him jerk in time with the thud of remembered fists, until he stands again and tries to walk the madness away. Round and around. Round and around.

Sherlock writes a text. _You went too far_. He doesn’t send it, because if Mycroft knows about this relationship, he hasn’t let on yet. Sherlock’s not going to hand it to him on a plate.

‘What’s wrong?’ he says to Jim, careful to leave all worry and sentiment out of his voice, because something so out of character would alert him to the fact he already knows exactly what’s wrong.

‘Nothing. Work.’

He doesn’t say _I could help_ , because he might be Jim’s boyfriend but he doesn’t, won’t, can’t, help with any of his jobs and especially not this one. He doesn’t say _you can talk to me_ because they don’t talk about anything important, anything personal beyond their fascination with each other. He most definitely does not touch that still-damaged face, and try to sooth the phantom pain with his thumbs, no matter how much he itches to. 

He makes Jim tea, and offers food but doesn’t make him eat it. By the time a week has passed and Jim’s hallucinating at the walls, when Sherlock can no longer go back to Baker Street because Jim can’t be left alone, he bypasses the problem by slipping a simple chemical into the next drink he makes. Jim’s asleep within thirty seconds. Sherlock carries him to bed, and brushes hair off his forehead. He kisses the skin stretched over a jutting cheekbone. He writes a text to Mycroft. _I hate you for making me do this._ He doesn’t send it.

Jim wakes twenty-seven hours later, and thinks he’s been asleep three hours. When he finds out he lost an entire day, Sherlock is genuinely concerned there’s going to be violence. He endures the _how dare you!?_ and the unhinged ten-minute rant about work deadlines, boundaries, violation of trust, all of which amount to a loss of control that he knew Jim could never stand. He sits on the couch and runs his thumb over the screen of his phone, Jim pacing pacing pacing, and writes _I was worried_ into a text. But he doesn’t send it, because he and Jim don’t talk about being worried, don’t show they care about anything except entertaining each other, and pleasing each other in bed whenever either of them remember. 

‘Do you want me to leave?’ he says when the storm has blown itself out, his tone bored and indifferent. 

‘What gave you a clue, _darling?_ ’

‘All right.’

He stands up, deleting each of the letters one by one, giving the concern in his chest ample time to disappear along with them. But then the text window is empty, and the weight around his heart is worse than ever.

‘I’ll text when you’ve calmed down,’ he adds, and leaves before Jim can find the energy to start screaming again.

Days pass. Weeks. He’s written so many _(I’m sorry: I’ll bring Chinese over: that uprising in the Middle East, was that you?: I’ll be late tonight, Mycroft’s nosing about: I miss you)_ and sent none of them, because he doesn’t want to know if they’re not going to get a reply. And because he’s taken to pacing himself, haunted by what he and his brother wrought. It had seemed so logical, even when knowing, but not saying, _this is my boyfriend you’re going to snatch, brother mine._ He never thought of it like that. They were duping James Moriarty, the most dangerous criminal mastermind there is. Not Jim, who kisses like a man in desperate need of someone to touch _him_ and not a persona, who laughs easily when his meaning is understood without him having to explain, who doesn’t understand affection when spoken but leans into it when offered with a hand, in the dark, so he doesn’t have to see what it really means. 

Sherlock writes to Mycroft, _is our plan working?_ and his thumb hovers for a full thirty seconds before he deletes it. It must be working, but he doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t have to know. All he has to do is wait for Jim to commit the opening salvo.

His phone rings at 4am one morning. He’s asleep, and annoyed at being woken before he considers who it must be. ‘What?’ he says, abrupt, and wants to take it back as soon as he hears the sharp intake of breath at the other end. He almost says sorry, but bites it back. They don’t apologise to each other, ever.

‘You said you were going to text.’

‘I wasn’t sure you’d have calmed down.’

‘And how would you guess it, Sherlock? If you’re ignoring me.’

‘I suppose I thought it would come to me one day. That you’d be over it.’

There’s a long silence, during which he replays the off-hand way he just said that, and wonders if he’s played it wrong. Jim has never liked sentiment. Jim is all sharp edges and stormy moods, and Sherlock can’t stay away because it’s _exciting_. But it’s exhausting too; not only the constant analysing of temperature and ferocity, but just…not being able to admit that while he’s tempestuous himself, he also likes the times they’re silent, and wrapped around each other in bed, not speaking. When Jim’s fingers tap a sleepy rhythm into his chest and he can hear him thinking, and knows he’s being heard, and no words need be wasted. But it takes a lot of fight to get to those moments, a lot of being Sherlock Holmes opposing James Moriarty, a lot of pretending that he doesn’t love him at all.

‘For a genius, you’ve got a lot to learn.’

‘Oh?’

‘Next time you get a boyfriend, my dear, remind yourself to be a human being. They’re more fun than robots.’

‘Well, you do like playing with people.’

Jim laughs. It’s a tired sound. Broken. Sherlock composes a text across his mind, _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, even if it’s true_ , and he thinks he might even send it if his phone wasn’t already in use.

‘Well, guess what? I like playing with you, Sherlock. But I am over it.’

‘Jim-'

The line is dead. Sherlock stares at a blank screen. _I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…_ he could type it. He doesn’t. He can’t make his fingers move, or his brain work. And he can’t phone him back, because that’s not what they do. It’s not who they are. They make statements at each other, they allocate evenings, they compartmentalise each other because it’s the only way they can meet at all. They don’t chase. They don’t cajole. Don’t _care_. 

Sherlock is numb all night. Distracted all morning, and pretending he isn’t. His phone beeps and he ignores it, again and again. The only text he wants is one that will never be sent.

‘Sherlock.’

‘Busy.’

‘…he’s back.’

_Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty. xx_

_*_

 

Even with the coat, he doesn’t feel quite whole. But that’s a feeling he’s been carrying around for two years, and has long since come to accept as a fact of his existence. In truth, he’s not sure he’d want to feel whole, because that would mean he’s erased Jim forever. He had thought about letting him go once the network was destroyed, but that’s done now, and…no. Not quite yet.

Mycroft and Anthea look at him, looking at himself in the mirror. He smiles for effect, collar turned up. Yes, he looks the part. And yes, it _is_ good to be home. But still.

‘One more thing, little brother.’

Anthea disappears at the subtle tilt of a head. Sherlock doesn’t turn.

‘We never recovered his body, as you know.’

‘Yes.’

‘But there was something.’

Sherlock’s hands freeze on the lapels of the Belstaff. He blinks once, and then curses himself for being such an open book. Mycroft smiles in the reflection.

‘Here. And do stay in touch. Mummy and Daddy have been worried sick.’

Sherlock pockets the offered phone, and leaves without another word. He doesn’t go to Baker Street, though he had planned to. He walks to Green Park and sits on a bench, because it’s the nearest place without blanket CCTV coverage, and he knows Mycroft will be looking.

The phone is not Jim’s. Not the one he saw him use, anyway. He probably had a lot, but this one is entirely new to Sherlock. There are no marks on it, no finger smudges, nothing to show it’s been used. But it is charged up, which means everything on it has been read. Sherlock holds his breath, and swipes it on.

There’s both nothing much to read, and everything. There’s only one contact saved.

_I wanted you to pull the trigger, you know._

_What do you see in him? Does he let you pet his hair? Does he wag his tail when you smile at him?_

Just two from after the pool. Then nothing until two weeks later, when Sherlock texted the other number and things started happening.

_I wanted you to ask if we could meet up again._

He had wanted to ask. Couldn’t ask. Jim always dictated everything. And there’s only that one, and then nothing until after the weeks in prison. Sherlock checks the dates. They were all not sent during that last week of madness.

_Why do you never ask the right thing?_

_Why the fuck do I even bother with you?_

_Therapists could write whole dissertations on what a totally crap human being you are, Sherlock. Relationship counsellors would just shoot themselves in the head._

_Next time you ask me what’s wrong, try and sound like you care._

_Why the fuck don’t you care._

_You did this. You and yOur brother._

_You think I’m too stupid to know it. of course I know it._

_You did ths nd you don’t even care._

Two days of nothing. The last one is dated an hour before he drugged him.

_y don’t u care_

  

_*_

 

Sherlock watches the phone for a long time. It’s in his pocket when John wrestles him to the ground, punches him, headbutts him. He keeps it with him in Baker Street. It lives on the mantelpiece until that seems too far away, and he puts it under the pillow next to him. A pillow Jim’s head never touched, but he used to imagine it might. 

He knows there’s one last text to read. It’s Jim, there’s always one more thing. But it will be the last one, and he’s in no hurry to have to close the book on everything they were. Once it’s read, that’s it. Game over. 

He occupies himself with composing responses to the questions that never got asked _(Safety, no, no, because I don’t know the right thing, I don’t know…),_ until it comes to the ones he can’t bear to think of. He deletes them from his mind, because he doesn’t need them in his head. They’re there on the screen, in his hand, his coat, the inner pocket next to his heart. There are plenty of silent nights in the flat, where he can look at the date of the last text and go numb all over again, where the explosion of that gun rips across his ears anew, and wind whistles through his hair, and that spray of blood-

In the end, it’s his own phone he takes out. It’s easier, finally, to say what he never could when Jim was alive.

_I did care. And I’m sorry._

He hits send. And despite all the logic in the world, there’s some small part of him that wishes for a miracle, that the screen won’t light back up, that…

_Failed. Message unsent. Try again?_

His thumb hovers over the button. His eyes flit to Jim’s phone, that one last message he can’t bear to read. Maybe it’s fitting that he never sees it, because Jim will never get to see _this_ one. Maybe.

It doesn’t feel fitting. It feels like torture. Punishment. But maybe that’s why it’s so right. He can try again every day, but this is one case that he feels just has to remain open.

 

 


	10. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, just a quick thing because I'm so behind on these now. Messy, sorry!

 

**#12: Meeting Family**

 

Sherlock doesn’t know how he got talked into this. Perhaps it was a combination of things; the knowledge of the utter tedium the afternoon would bring otherwise, the lure of something, if not forbidden, then certainly frowned upon if the truth were known. 

On the other hand, neither of those things should have been worth the sure and certain knowledge that he’ll never be allowed to hear the end of this. 

‘I’ve changed my mind. I can’t do it.’

Jim laughs, sticks his hand in Sherlock’s coat pocket and catches his hand so he can tug him along the driveway. ‘Too late, darling. We’ve been spotted from the upstairs window. And of course you can.’

‘I really can’t. I really don’t want to.’

‘Yeeeeees, but as I said, too late. Anyway, it’ll be fun!’

Sherlock is convinced it will _not_ be fun, and not just because Sunday dinner at his parent’s house never is.

‘For you, maybe.’

He grouses it out as the front door opens ahead of them, and Jim laughs again.

‘That _is_ what I meant.’

‘Sherlock! There you are. Late as ever.’

He forces a smile as Mummy throws her arms wide, then clasps both his shoulders and kisses his cheek. He can _feel_ Jim grinning next to him, just as he can tell the attention of both parents is focused entirely on this new person in their midst.

‘Mummy. Dad. Hello.’

He takes a small step back, and words seem to catch in his throat. God, he really can’t do this. He’s well aware it’s considered weird to reach your mid-thirties and have never brought someone home, but that he should bow to convention finally, and it be _this_ person-

Jim’s eyebrows are raised theatrically. In fact everyone’s are, and they’re all staring at him.

‘Oh. Right, yes. Sorry.’ He makes an awkward gesture to his right. ‘I said I was bringing someone. You didn’t forget, did you? This is James. James, Marilyn and Simon, my parents.’

There’s a hint of expectant pause, as if something important was left off that introduction. Jim really couldn’t look more amused, and eventually helps him out. ‘God, he’s rubbish at this, isn’t he? Hi. It’s nice to meet you.’

He shakes the paternal hand, kisses the maternal cheek, all with an easy charm that Sherlock feels he shouldn’t be surprised about, because when is Jim not like that? At least when he’s in full control of his faculties. But in this situation, so domestic…well, no, he doesn’t know what he expected. 

‘He _is_ rubbish at this, and I’m not in the least surprised, because he’s simply never done it before. Honestly, we’d given up hope, but now-’

Sherlock catches his dad nudge his mother, and watches as she skids to a mental stop, U-turns into realisation and starts galloping towards an apology in the space of half a heartbeat. He can see it as clearly as he deciphers any crime scene, and sighs loudly to cut it off.

‘Yes, Mummy, it’s fine, don’t worry. You’re not wrong. He’s my-‘

Ugh, he hates acknowledging this. It makes Jim so smug. And now it comes to it, saying it out loud is proving harder than his exasperation promised. The silence stretches, until Jim once more comes to the rescue.

‘…boyfriend, yes, is what he’s trying to say.’ 

Mummy and Jim share a glance, immediately in cahoots. **_Useless_** _at this_. Sherlock grinds his teeth, and Dad tries not to laugh. Ever the diplomat, he steps back and gestures them all inside.

‘No point standing on the doorstep. Come on in. Sherlock, help me bring some wood in, won’t you? James, you go through - there’s a nice red open in the kitchen.’

Jim is visibly delighted when his arm is taken, tucked in to Marilyn’s side and she pulls a face at Sherlock over her shoulder. 

‘Don’t worry, _I’ll_ look after him. Honestly, Sherlock. Did you think we would mind? I’m actually offended.’

Dad rolls his eyes good-naturedly, and starts passing logs into his arms to load into the basket in the lounge. ‘Looks like those two are going to get on all right.’

‘Jim gets on all right with everyone.’ When he wants to. ‘He’ll probably talk more than she will.’

‘Good God. Really?’

Sherlock has to agree; it’s an alarming prospect. But he just pulls a face, and notes that the anxiety he’d felt on the way in is, if not gone, then certainly easing.

‘Well, he looks nice. Where’d you meet him? Connected to one of your cases, was he?’

‘Do you assume I couldn’t meet anyone a normal way?’

‘Well…yes. Do you do anything _but_ work?’

It’s a kind response, really. His father could have assumed he’d met Jim through drugs. It would be natural, given everything; this situation is so unlikely that anything’s fair game. But his parents have always given him the benefit of the doubt. Some would say too much and perhaps they’d be right, but Sherlock’s always appreciated that about them all the same.

‘So, what does he do?’

‘Oh-‘ Sherlock smiles thinly, and turns to enter the house with his logs. ‘He’s a consultant. Not unlike me.’

 

 

*

 

 

Things are going well, or at least as well as he could dare hope. His mother clearly _loves_ Jim, which is exactly what Jim had said would happen when he started pestering Sherlock to accept the invitation to dinner.

‘Come onnnnn, Sherlock, what’s the worst that could happen?’

‘Uhhhh… _well_ , you could let slip you’re a highly dangerous and unstable criminal genius, to begin with. You could lose your grip over the meal and decide it would be the perfect time to-‘

‘-shut up-‘

‘-fine, unlikely, I grant, but don’t tell me you haven’t thought about using them against me. I have _met_ you, Jim. You could casually allude to any one of the multitude of diplomatic nightmares you’ve caused for the Service over the years, something even my father will strenuously object to. You could start talking about the 1983 general election, which will get you dumped out onto the driveway quicker than one of your snipers can shoot a bullet…for that matter, you could decide to invite a sniper to join the party, assassinate her slow-roasted joint and cause her to slaughter every last one of us at the table.’

There had been a pause.

‘…we’ll talk about maths, Sherlock. You won’t understand a word of it, and she’ll love me before we’ve even sat down. A blowjob says I’m right.’

A bet had added an element of interest, especially as it’s one he didn’t mind losing. He knew - knows - perfectly well Jim can charm anyone into loving him. It worked on him, after all.

And it definitely looks like he’s going to lose. The two of them are talking about theorems and equations, exclaiming over people Mummy used to know back when she was at UCL. It seems they even attended the same lecture once, something unintelligible by someone with a stupid name, held at Trinity when Jim was an undergrad. Sherlock didn’t even know Jim had _gone_ to Trinity. It makes him scowl and want to cut in on the conversation, but he isn’t given the chance because just then, the doorbell rings.

Sherlock’s heart turns to rock, and drops through his body. Jim sees his expression and frowns, and Mummy claps her hands in delight.

‘Wonderful! Oh, I didn’t think…excuse me, boys, just a minute…’

OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod.

‘Sher-‘

‘We need to go. Out the back. Now.’

‘What?’

His father’s in the doorway. There’s no easy escape. Sherlock eyes the window, and is crossing to it as he hears the front door get flung upon.

‘Mycroft! Darling, I didn’t think you were coming.’

Cheek kissing, coat removal, umbrella depositing. Sherlock tugging frantically at the bay window, and Jim with his hand over his mouth, trying not to cackle out loud.

‘Bloody _help me_. For God’s sake! _Jim_.’

‘I caught an earlier flight. The car was coming this way anyway, and it has been an age since I’ve seen you. Hello, daddy, you’re looking well…’

Pleasantries, blah blah: Sherlock gets the window open an inch, but the lock is caught on something and he can’t wiggle it free. He hears his mother’s voice drop, and turn theatrically furtive, knowing they can be overheard as they walk along the corridor. ‘You won’t _believe_ it, but Sherlock’s brought someone to meet us.’

It’s the sort of condescension Sherlock’s always loathed, even when he knows it’s done with good intentions.

‘Oh?'

They’re almost in the room. He can feel Mycroft’s raised eyebrow.

‘Yes, and he’s lovely. Daddy, fetch Mike a glass of wine, would you, dear?’

Mycroft’s tone is supercilious. ‘Then I do wonder why Little Brother is attempting to leave via the window rather than introduce him to…’

He steps through the doorway. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut. The silent waves of Jim’s amusement could drown everyone in the room, and not even the delight of Mycroft’s faltering can ease the tension away.

Mycroft stares at Jim with open incredulity. Sherlock turns on his heel, his back poker straight. The silence stretches on, and on, and on. Until;

‘…well, that explains it. Try the key next time, Sherlock, I hear they work wonders.’

Jim sticks his hand out, mischief dancing in his eyes.

‘James. You must be Mycroft. I’ve heard _ever_ so much about you.’

Sherlock battles the urge to shut his eyes again. One push of a button, and Lord knows how much of the secret service will descend. And Mycroft’s just staring at the hand, and the grin, and the cheek. He’s so obviously reckoning a total to add to the years-long bill Jim has wracked up at the expense of Queen and Country, Sherlock contemplates just smashing the window and making a leap for it.

‘ _James_? Oh, I see. Less obvious than the abbreviation in case this was mentioned, which it surely would be-‘

‘Oh, do you two know each other? That’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Mummy reappears with a bowl of nibbles, and holds it out towards Mycroft and Jim. Sherlock thinks it would probably hover in the air, resting on the thick ledge where hostility and bare-faced confidence meet in the air between them. ‘Did you introduce them, Mikey? That’d be just like you.’

Mycroft’s face turns murderous for a split-second, before melting to a mask of mild sarcasm. Jim bites his lip so he doesn’t laugh. Sherlock…finds he's actually rather enjoying this.

‘Would it, Mrs H? Bit of a matchmaker, is he?’

‘Oh, he’ll kill me for saying so. Yes you would, don’t look at me like that. But between you and me, James-‘ she takes his arm again, and starts leading him off towards the dining room, ‘-he always looks out for Sherlock, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he made sure he was somewhere he knew you’d be.’ She glances over her shoulder with a triumphant grin, then leans in to Jim again with a loud whisper. ‘Don’t tell them I said that.’

‘Secret’s safe with me. Promise.’

In the doorway, hidden from Mycroft, Jim looks back over his shoulder and mouths the word _blowjob_. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Mycroft…stands. He's very good at standing. He does it with _meaning_.

‘Boyfriend.’

‘Mmmm. Yessss. You know, one of those things where you meet someone and like them, go and do things together and then have sex. You should look into it.’

‘Sherlock-‘

‘Come along, you two! Daddy’s dishing up!’

They both turn in the direction of the voice. It’s her _don’t make me ask twice_ voice, cunningly disguised for the benefit of their guest. Mycroft looks like he’s about to explode, and Sherlock just grins.

‘After you, brother dear.’

‘We are going to have _words_ about this, Sherlock.’

‘I can hardly wait. But you heard Mummy. Dinner’s ready, and you know what she’s like about her roasts. And _I_ know you can’t bear rudeness at the dinner table, so…you know.’

‘What?’

‘Make sure you’re nice to Jim. Mummy will be _so_ disappointed if you’re not.’

He leaves him gaping at the air, and goes to wash his hands. Jim was right. This _is_ going to be fun.

 

 

 

 


	11. 11 & 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why is writing sweet and domestic stuff the most excruciatingly difficult of them all? ;ldkfsja hellish.

 

**#11 and #17: Fluff and Domestic**

 

Jim doesn’t let Sherlock conduct experiments at his flat, not even ones that don’t involve body parts. Early on in this…whatever they are…just after Jim finally took him to one of his actual homes, Sherlock had been alone with a few hours to kill. All those wide, white surfaces in the kitchen, uncluttered, neat, practically sparkling, they were so clean - it had been impossible to resist. He’d collected a few things from Baker Street and got to work, losing himself in it so deep he didn’t hear Jim come in at first. 

‘What. _The fucking hell_. Have you done to my kitchen?’

Sherlock had startled to awareness, not by the sudden company but from the genuine fury in Jim’s tone. There had not been a date that night. There had been a lot of shouting in rough Irish tones, a spot of physical violence, and then a lot of cleaning. Sherlock had even offered to help, as it was probably expected, but had been told in no uncertain terms to fuck off.

 

 

*

 

Sherlock does not let Jim clear the dust off every surface in Baker Street, no matter how much he itches to do it. He teases him about it, saying it’s there because of him - how else is he going to know Jim’s broken in to piss John off? But Jim knows the truth of it. Sherlock can’t think when everything’s empty around him; he needs a place to be full of junk, and dust, and objects, because his mind is all clean lines and angles, excess sliced away with the scalpel of logic, unimportant details shed and vanished. If his flat were like that too, it’d be like living in his own head. Jim likes wandering around the place, touching all the bits and pieces Sherlock picks up on his travels through life, and crime. It’s like putting his fingers on part of his brain, caressing his thought process. It’s as close as he can come to immersing himself in the single most attractive thing about Sherlock Holmes. 

He can never stay for long, though. He says it’s the dust that puts him off, and it’s even partly true. Jim doesn’t like dirt and he doesn’t like people; being somewhere that combines the two is almost more than he can take. It’s not always a problem, because his sensory issues aren’t always that bad. But sometimes. Definitely sometimes.

No, the real issue is that he and Sherlock are the same. Their real home is in their heads. But they have to exist physically too, and Jim can no more bear to live in an extension of his own mind than Sherlock can. The clutter of 221b nudges up against his mental noise as soon as he walks in, and it only gets louder. If he stays more than a night, the chaos starts to scream and he can’t bear the idea of the dust he’s breathing in, the hair on the unvacuumed carpet, the bacteria spreading out from the body parts in the fridge. It sticks to him, presses on his thoughts, makes him twitch and become irritable. Reentering the pristine lines of his own flat is like slipping into a warm, calming bath, with nothing to annoy and set him off. 

It’s a problem, and not the sort he enjoys. Being with Sherlock is the only comfort he has, the only time he gets something approaching peace. Sharing space with someone who doesn’t need things explained, who understands what he does, who doesn’t react _boringly_ …he wants that. But he can’t live with him. It’s impossible. Sherlock is not introspective, he probably hasn’t realised this difference between them. There’s no point addressing it, and Jim’s not going to bring it up. He’s not going to be the one to admit he thinks about these things. Sherlock’s got John to be his peace, a creature of comfort who’s only too happy to sit around in the detritus of a genius mind. Well, let them have it. It’s not like he _cares_.

 

*

 

A hotel room is always safe space. Jim sits at the window and watches the storm clouds rolling across Loch Lomond, bringing the rain his arthritic knee started promising yesterday. The pressure of a summer storm sets his sinuses aching, and he removes the glasses he finally gave in and started wearing three years ago so he can rub the top of his nose. 

‘Headache?’

Sherlock emerges from the bathroom, tying his robe. Jim can’t help but smile. His hair remains a glorious mess of curls, especially in the morning. It used to get mussed from the sort of sex that felt like the world couldn’t contain it. Everything’s more sedate these days - by necessity, not lack of desire - but he still manages to look like he’s been pulled through a hedge backwards.

‘Not yet. Do you want me to ring for breakfast?’

‘In a minute. I’ve got something for you first.’

Sherlock starts rummaging around in the chaos of his suitcase. Jim stretches his knee out, amused.

‘I’m still suffering one of your gifts, darling. Twelve years, and it just keeps giving.’

‘Oh, hush. Some people would _love_ a joint that predicts the rain. You never have to worry about leaving your clothes on the line to get wet.’

‘All my clothes are dry cleaned.’

‘Details.’

Jim doesn't hide the fond smile as Sherlock comes back, and is glad he no longer has to. Time hasn’t stopped their game, but at least they now both acknowledge that while death will certainly end it, murder at the hands of the other will not. 

‘Here.’

Jim takes the tube held out, his eyes on Sherlock’s grinning face rather than the gift. Though it does have a fetching red bow on it.

‘If it’s a body part, I’m going to be very upset.’

‘That’s right, I squashed a head in there just for you.’

Sherlock leans down and kisses him before he can retaliate with _it wouldn’t surprise me -_ and it really wouldn’t - but perhaps it’s just as well.

‘Happy birthday, Jim.’

‘What’s this?’

‘A head in a tube, I just told you. Open it.’

Jim rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. When have they ever bothered with gifts? Each other’s company has always been enough on birthdays. And his confusion doesn’t lessen when he unrolls the paper he extracts, and holds it up against the window as it’s the nearest flat surface. 

‘It’s a blueprint.’

‘Mmm.’ Sherlock folds himself onto the window seat, and crosses his legs with far more grace than a man nearly fifty should be able to manage. But then, he didn’t get broken bones from that last confrontation. 

‘A blueprint of a house.’

‘A blueprint of _our_ house.’

Jim’s heart sinks as understanding hits. Not at the gift, but at the way he’s going to have to let him down. Nothing’s changed in that regard. He still can’t stand dust. Sherlock still can’t see a flat surface without filling it up with junk.

‘Sherlock-‘

‘I know what you’re going to say. Yes, I do - I know you consider me dense in these matters, but even I can’t spend fifteen years in a relationship with you and refuse to see the obvious.’

Jim bets he can. It’s not even a criticism, because there are more interesting things for Sherlock to focus his mind on. He opens his mouth to say it, but Sherlock just shakes his head, and points.

‘Look.’

Three levels, he sees that. Decent room sizes. An enormous garden by the look of things, so it’s probably out in the country somewhere.

Sherlock’s hand falls on his bad knee, and rubs it.

‘The bottom floor is all yours. Library, workshop, study, living rooms, whatever you want. No stairs in the place.’

Jim blinks at the paper. Sherlock’s voice lowers, as if wanting him to see that he’s thought it through but is a little unsure whether he’ll like it.

‘The top floor’s all mine. A lab, ventilated upwards so there’ll be no smell through the rest of the place.’ His free hand waves a vague circle in the air. ‘Places for the body parts, and proper storage for the chemicals. So they won’t bother you.’

Jim blinks again. Sherlock really has thought about it. ‘And the middle floor?’ he ventures after a moment, even though the answer’s perfectly obvious.

‘Bedroom.’

He knows his smile is just as mischievous as Sherlock’s when they glance at each other. 

‘And a bathroom and dressing room each, so I won’t mess up your suits, and you won’t try to tidy mine. You can order all your shampoo bottles by size to your heart’s content, and I won’t say a word.’

‘What if we want to fuck in the bath?’

‘I would hope we’d be too distracted to care about folded towels or unordered bottles, in that case.’

Jim has to concede the point. Damnit, that puts Sherlock one ahead. He takes the paper down off the window, studies it a moment in silence, then starts to roll it up. Damn him, damn him, damn him.

‘Jim?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Do you want to, then?’

He looks up. Sherlock’s smile has thinned to a trepidatious line, but there’s no denying the hope in it. Jim would like to keep him hanging for a while longer, but…he’s fifty years old today, and there’s no peace in life without Sherlock Holmes to give it to him. The time for wanton cruelty towards this man has long since been and gone.

‘Yes. Yes Sherlock, I want to.’

 

*

 

Sherlock watches Jim putter about the kitchen, trying to convince himself he’s interested in learning to cook now he no longer lives in the city. He seems to have this idea of how domestic life should go, lifted wholesale off the pages of an IKEA magazine or something. Cooking, ornaments, a television, mowing the lawn.

Sherlock cooked an eyeball in his lab yesterday, and the day before that he came downstairs to find Jim disassembling the TV to get extra wires for a new bomb design he’s been working on. They both took one look at the size of the lawn and immediately hired a team of gardeners, simply because Sherlock wants to be able to walk down to the beehives without fighting his way through a jungle of grass. Their nearest neighbour - half a mile away - issued an invitation for dinner three days ago. Sherlock phoned Mycroft to do a background check, and Jim flew a drone over the back fields to spy on them for a couple of days before they considered accepting.

They’ve been here six months. One Christmas, Sherlock’s fiftieth birthday - John even swallowed his distrust of Jim to come down for the day - two small explosions apiece, only one visit from the police and six disapproving calls from Mycroft asking if there’s any particular reason Jim is jamming all attempts at watching the house. Sherlock sent him a sex tape in answer. Mycroft threatened the SAS in retaliation.

‘Jim?’

‘Where’s the wok, Sherlock?’

‘What’s a wok?’

‘For God’s sake! Why-‘

‘Shall I order a Chinese?’

‘…yeah, all right.’

They smile at each other over a kitchen counter, acknowledging that at least they’re equally hopeless in some things. But as luck would have it, domestic life isn’t one of them. It’s taken a long time to get here but it’s amazing what genius can make work, when it really wants to.

 


	12. 16

 

**#16 - Injury**

 

There’s a hand print on the wall. Red, and glistening, and perfect against pristine white paint; palm, a gentle oval of base-of-thumb, fingers one two three four, and only broken at the ends, smeared as he stepped away, trailing to keep up with stumbling feet. Left hand, injury on right side, a lot of injury, a lot of blood, the tale all told by viscosity, volume, length of life-juice left carelessly, thoughtlessly, behind.

There’s a splash of red on the hand-sanded floorboards, seeping across the varnish with no place to go, nowhere to sink into, slipping along the surface with no earth to take root. Nothing can absorb it, too bright too red too much, knocked out of jagged skin by a fall, a trip, something that wasn’t supposed to happen, pouring him out in a place he’s not supposed to be. A bullet then, or a blade, invading an artery, _radialfemoralaorta_ ** _subclavian_** , causing him to fall, to fall, it was his turn, he is owed a fall, maybe but not really, it was not supposed to finish this way.

There is blood all over the bathroom, and the Devil in black, crumpled in a heap with a smile on his face, lips a crooked line painted by a child’s fat wet paintbrush, red in a face as white as flour. 

 _Just a flesh wound_ , he says, because he’s a liar who’s always lied, who lies in every breath, who lies with his very existence, a new name for every day of the week, a wardrobe full of disguises for the men, women, police, kids, parents, passers-by he hates and hurts and tricks, invisible to all except one of them has found him now.

Subclavian. A bullet drilled through bone and muscle, reaching out as it flew by, flicking a hole in a few millimetres of glistening flesh, causing this, all this, all this red. It gets everywhere, full of dying oxygen and dying thoughts and a dying brain, that brain, shutting down cell by brilliant cell, making the world dark as its light goes out. It’s funny what all this red can do.

‘Answer me one question.’

White covers brown light for longer than it should, and when it retracts and Jim looks his way, there isn’t much life to be seen. It’s all on the floor, laid at his feet, so he can sit in it, walk through it, know it at last.

‘Does it hurt more than you already did?’

One last smile, maybe. He could cauterise the hole, probably. In the nick of time. Possibly. 

‘Nothing hurts more than that, Sherlock.’

One last kiss, definitely. Blood, too red and too much, seeping over trembling membranes and sinking, falling, absorbed. And when it’s over, the taste of wet metal is all that remains, sharp and insidious, taken root, part of him, found a place, invisible to all but forever tasted by one.


	13. 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is I of II. The second part - where it will _hopefully_ come together and make some sort of sense, will come on day 29 of this challenge.
> 
> Second part now done, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7493169/chapters/18850718).

 

**#23: Angst**

 

Jim’s good with a knife. Sherlock notices it in a dispassionate sort of way, the realisation of something it seems he’s always known. 

He’s only seen Jim with a knife once before, carving pieces of apple while talking, talking, talking, deflecting attention from his hands with his mouth and thoughts, that plan that so nearly ruined them both. He knew it was no threat then; Jim would never just show up and stab him, any more than he’d pull a gun and shoot him, so he must have just filed the knowledge away. _Jim is good with a knife_. 

There’s no threat now, either. He’s chopping vegetables, and humming to himself. The tip of the blade doesn’t leave the board, the thick part guillotining up and down in a quick, smooth, rhythm, as neat and clean as any chef. Sherlock watches from his chair in the sitting room, transfixed, wondering where he learned, and then wondering whether he really wants to know. 

‘Grandmother,’ Jim says, and Sherlock nods and goes back to reading his paper. There is no longer any surprise in the way they know the sensation of each other’s curiousity. It’s a simple deduction from there to the cause of it.

‘What’s that song you’re humming?’

He can feel Jim’s smile, if not see it.

‘Wait and see, darling.’

  

*

  

They first met in Molly Hooper’s lab, though Jim doesn’t count it because Sherlock didn’t know it was him. Knowledge is important, he says. Far more than truth. It would never have been a proper game if Sherlock didn’t know who he was playing. This is a conversation that has come up many times, both spoken and not. Sherlock once outright asked, ‘if I hadn’t solved your puzzles, would you have come to the pool?’ And Jim just looked at him like he was a moron, which Sherlock accepted because it was a stupid question. If he hadn’t solved them, why would they have needed to meet? They wouldn’t have been equals, and Moriarty doesn’t show himself for just anyone. But then, Jim already knew they were. He wouldn't have played at all if he hadn’t known that. He knew years before Sherlock did.

That was then. This is now. Things have happened. Good things, and the worst things imaginable. There have been times when Sherlock…no, he’s never wished he could die. But he sometimes wished he could kill, up until the moment he _did_ kill. Things morphed after that, the way things do: people say _I would never_ … until they’re forced into a corner, and then they find out exactly what they will and won’t ever do. Sherlock was always aware he was capable of killing; it was impossible to avoid that knowledge, given his attitude towards people in general, his inability to care much about them outside of their use as distractions. John changed that, of course. He was worth taking that extra step for, worth protecting at all costs, and Sherlock does not regret the murder. But he doesn’t dream of killing, he has no desire to do it again: he accepts that he has killed, and is capable of it without remorse. But never without _reason_ , and that’s the difference between he and Jim, really. In many ways the only difference. 

‘What’s got you all pensive?’

Jim puts a plate of stir-fry down in front of him, then sits at the head of the table, a right-angle away. Sherlock nods thanks, and picks up his fork.

‘Murder.’

‘Oh? Anyone I know?’

‘Yes. Me.’

‘Interesting. Are you solving one, planning one, or have you been getting death threats again?’

Jim looks genuinely interested, as if it hasn’t occurred to him the thought might have been in any way abstract. It has, of course. Everything occurs to Jim.

‘Just my own attitude towards it.’

‘Boring, darling. We both know that already. Change of topic. Do you want to go on holiday?’

Sherlock runs his eyes over Jim’s tanned skin, and shifts his neck minutely, so he can feel his own sunburn drag across his loose collar. Rain hammers against the windows of the flat, London insisting on being typically November.

‘If you want,’ he says, in a neutral tone, and eats his dinner. Jim hums that tune again, the one he can never quite place.

  

*

  

Jim doesn’t know it, but Sherlock doesn’t really count the pool as their first meeting. Yes, fine, he met Moriarty that day. But what did he really see? Exactly what he was meant to. An adversary. An equal. A reflection in the mirror. And what did John see? He wrote it on his blog later: _Moriarty clearly had no discernible human feelings_. 

None of these things are anything like Jim. Facets of him perhaps; just like the clothes he puts on to present an image, changing personalities to suit the job, or match his tie. But doesn’t everyone do that? Normal people go for job interviews and they’re one person, and go out with their friends and they’re another. The only remarkable thing about Jim’s way of doing things is that a) he’s so good at it, and b) some of his facets end up in people being dead. Or worse, at times. There are worse things than being dead.

‘Where do you fancy? Egypt? Morocco? The Maldives?’

Sherlock would like to stay in London. He aches to stay in London, but it’s becoming increasingly more difficult. He touches Jim’s hand because it happens to be close, and his chest clenches at the smile it brings.

‘You choose, Sherlock.’

‘Greece is nice.’

‘Greece! I haven’t been there in years. Shall we stay for Christmas?’

‘If you like.’

Jim stands up, all energy and verve, and Sherlock looks forward to how it’ll be later. It’s always the same when he can’t sit still. He’ll be playful all evening, grinning, teasing, and when Sherlock eventually lets himself be coaxed to bed, they’ll fall into touch like they need each other to breathe. And how true that is. How awfully true.

He watches him rinse plates, humming, and humming, and humming. His eyes slide to the mantelpiece when his back is turned, and fall on the postcard that was waiting on the mat for them when they got home last week. It declares _A View of Athens,_ and is addressed to Sherlock Holmes in Jim’s erratic handwriting. The food was wonderful, the weather was great. Almost too hot! Wish you were here. Three kisses.

Sherlock touches his fingers to the red skin behind his ear. The weather had been very nice. He still wonders who Jim had thought he was standing next to, the day he wrote that card.

 

*

 

How did they end up here? It’s a story he’ll never tell. As Jim would say, _truth’s boring_. It would take Mycroft to unravel it, and John to write it, not that John’s going to win any awards for literature. But he understands the main players as well as anyone can, so he’s the most qualified. Still, Sherlock will never tell him. It hurts too much to think of John, after everything that happened. He lives close by. They see each other, of course. He has a second wife, and everything about him says he’s happy - except when he thinks Sherlock can’t see. He looks sad then. Jim pointed it out to him on one of his more cruel days, leaning in the doorway of their bedroom as John gave him one curt glance before he left.

‘He hates you for loving me. Hates you Sherlock, _hates_ you.’

‘I hate you sometimes.'

‘Well, you’re allowed. Come to bed, beautiful. Fuck the sight of that man out of me.’

He hates Jim most when he says things like that. But he hates John for what he did too, and he definitely hates himself for falling in love at all. Mycroft would laugh so hard, if he were alive to do so. But he isn’t, because Jim saw to it. Jim did _win_ , in the end.

Except, look at him. Listen to him. What did he win?

‘You, darling.’

Sherlock looks up, dragged from the daydream, and smiles as Jim leans down to kiss him. 

‘You need to stop reading my mind.’

‘When you stop reading mine.’

Jim settles between his legs, head on Sherlock’s chest, his laptop leaning against bended knees. Sherlock pets his hair, loving him to the tips of it. Years of this now, but not too many. There are lines around Jim’s eyes, but he had them back then too. His body is still that of a young man. His smile could light a city. His energy…well, it’s an unpredictable force. If he turns it outward, people still tend to die. Or sometimes it just means windows get broken, and plaster ripped off the walls. If he turns it inward, there’s usually blood. Days of silence while his mind continues to eat itself alive. Weeks and weeks are lost this way. 

‘I’m booking the plane. Can we go in two days?’

‘If you like.’

He watches the email go out to the pilot, telling him to file a flight plan to the Maldives.

‘Not Greece?’

‘We’ve just come back from Greece, Sherlock. Keep up.’

‘Of course. Sorry.’

He turns his head to look out of the window, London grey and drowning. It was his city, once. Now it’s another thing he gave up for Jim. It’s not that they can’t stay here; no one knows anything about the things that happened, except the two people in this room, and John. Everyone else is dead. John only knows some of it. Jim only remembers things in pieces. The truth is pure only in Sherlock’s mind, and it sits there untouched, unlooked for by anyone. If Mycroft were alive, he wouldn’t have to talk about it - wouldn’t want to with him, probably - but at least he’d know there was someone else who understood. 

‘Did you know that no one ever touches another thing?’

Jim breaks off humming to ask, typing, typing, typing. He types words in numbers, thinks in code, always. It would be fine, if he could remember which key belonged to which encryption, like he used to.

‘I’m touching you right now.’

He is. He never stops touching. Jim’s hair is silky between his fingers. He couldn’t bear to not touch him, even on the days he thinks about murder, and how it would be a kindness.

‘You’re not. Just like I’m not leaning on you, and I’m not touching these computer keys.’

‘Oh, you’re talking about that thing with the electrons again.’

‘Again?’

‘You mentioned it once. It must be in my mind palace somewhere.’

Jim’s not listening. He’s humming.

‘Electrons know where every other electron is, Sherlock. They avoid each other at all costs. They can never touch; there’s not a force in the world large enough to bring them together. Our entire lives are spent-‘

Jim tapers off, his voice small all of a sudden; sad, bereft.

‘-we hover next to each other. To everything. There’s never contact.’

Sherlock sits up, gripped by pain, arms around Jim’s stomach. He turns his head and kisses him, hard and fierce, kisses him until Jim’s moaning and melted into his chest, eyes closed to keep the ache of solitude to himself.

‘I’m touching you now, Jim. It’s you and me, remember?’

He breathes it against his mouth. Without this, it was all for nothing. And he can’t be without this.

A corner of Jim’s mouth twitches. He starts to hum, stops, and then whispers back.

‘We’re just alike, you and I.’

‘You and me, Jim.’

  

*

 

If they were really alike, Mycroft would have let him go to prison after he killed Magnusson. Or he would have sent him off on that suicide mission, regardless of whether Jim had come back or not. But his brother knew that Sherlock only killed when forced to it, whereas Jim murders when the mood takes him. It’s a constant battle to keep him calm now; the walls between the compartments of his mind have been crumbling for years, and Jim actively tears them down these days. If Sherlock weren’t here, God only knows what he’d do. His sanity may be almost completely lost, but his brilliance is not. If anything, it’s more potent this way. He’s always been an abstract thinker, but madness puts ideas together in ways that could literally sear the earth. Codes and codes and codes; the world runs on them, but so does Jim Moriarty. If he plugs himself into the system, nothing’s safe. He can see a pattern in a screen of 1’s and 0’s, swirl them into shapes, rotate and _click_ them into a whole new thing, then flip them by fractions of degrees and slot them into a completely different place, and always one that’ll do the most damage. Sherlock doesn’t begin to understand the numbers, but he understands Jim. When he gets that look in his eye, it’s time to take him to bed, or out of the country, or let him rant for twelve hours on the restrictions of relativity in the light of string theory, because if he doesn’t then someone’s going to suffer. It’s never Sherlock. Ever. Jim touches him with love, almost reverence, no matter what his mood. But he threatens John, and worse, he threatens himself.

Worse? Maybe. Maybe not. Every time Sherlock hides everything sharp in the flat, he curses himself for being weak. He should just let him do it. But he’s far too selfish, and prides himself on his ability to keep Jim happy. Even the way he is now, Sherlock can’t let him go. He can’t imagine the world without him. What a lonely, desolate, boring place that would be.

‘Darling?’

‘Mmm?’

‘Can we go to bed now?’

‘It’s eight-thirty.’

‘I want you to try and touch me.’

Sherlock smiles. Jim is warm in his arms, and solid enough. Bones and skin, if not much meat. He brings their foreheads together, their always-futile attempt to wind their minds into one. 

‘I’m touching you now. I am. It’s not an illusion.’

There’s a soft huff of breath against his mouth. And then a kiss, almost.

‘Try harder, Sherlock. Please.’

He nods, and slides a hand under Jim’s shirt, stroking his stomach, kissing him like it can restore them to what they both once were, before Moriarty arrived and killed everything. Young, and sharp, and alive. Enemies, reflections, each other. 

Jim hums on the way to the bedroom, his hand in Sherlock’s, swinging their arms like he’s six years old. He looks smaller than he used to, and his eyes look bigger. There’s a universe of madness in their light, and Sherlock wants to throw himself in deeper every time he sees them. The more he knows Jim, the more he knows himself. The worse he gets, the better Sherlock is. 

It’s selfish, this relationship. Cruel really, to keep him alive. But Sherlock’s always been a self-centred creature. Anyone will say so.

‘Jim? What’s that song you’re humming?’

There’s a quiet laugh. Jim releases his hand in the bedroom, spins in a wide circle, arms held out like he’s crowing about daylight robbery. And then they fall, and he’s grinning, and grinning, and grinning, leaning into Sherlock, drowning him in that gaze, fingers playing along the burnt and aching parts of his skin.

‘Wait and see, darling. Wait and see.’

 


	14. 29

 

 **#29: Songfic** (follow-up piece to  **#23:[Angst](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7493169/chapters/17448727)** )

 

 

London is particularly cold this December. Sherlock doesn’t know if it’s the weather or just because it’s such a marked contrast to the Maldives, but the city feels as if it’s held in the palm of the universe, floating in the ice-crusted vacuum of space. Walking down Oxford Street brings a strange dislocation; snatches of Christmas carols wafting out of shops, carried on heated breeze as doors open and close, only to crumble to nothing as they meet the frigid air that has wound itself through the streets, stuck to the bricks and frosted there, turning them silver. Fairy lights hang like stars, glittering against the darkness when night falls but hanging limp in the afternoon, dull blobs of green and red against the bleached-grey of London stone. The cold has taken all colour out of the world, even the air grey from eight million breaths suspended in it, as people hurry about their lives; from work, Christmas shopping, having appointments, doing whatever it is ordinary people do. Sherlock watches them with his chin buried in his scarf, hands deep in his coat pockets. Even hidden there and wrapped in gloves, the chill whispers along his fingers.

They had planned to stay in the sun through Christmas, as much as they can plan anything these days. Sherlock had thought it was certain, because Jim prefers the heat. He’s not very good at sunbathing, he’s not able to stay still long enough, but he loves the water. They had a very private villa, with a very private pool, and managed two days of swimming, lazing around with books and music, a lot of open air sex, before Sherlock came inside one day and found Jim in the bathroom, staring at the blood running down his fingers. 

He’d taken the bits of mirror out of them with a pair of tweezers, washed and stitched them carefully while Jim sat and watched with wide and worried eyes. When they were wrapped, Sherlock kissed each fingertip and pulled him into his chest, feeling him breathe against his shoulder. He had wanted to ask _what were you trying to do?_ , but he knows the answer. It’s not the first time Jim hasn’t recognised the reflection staring back at him.

His own shines in a glass door, briefly, as he reaches a hand through winter’s bite, and pushes it open. It looks the same. Older, a little more lined, but the same. The heat and smell of the Criterion rushes to meet him and drag him inside; he takes a breath of stuffy warmth as the tips of his ears prickle with the change in temperature, and his nose fills with the smell of old beer, chips and gravy from the kitchen, coffee wafting from behind the bar. It smells of what other people would take comfort in. Normal. Heat, shelter, sustenance. Thick jumpers on a winter’s day, slippers in front of a fire. 

‘Sherlock!’

He turns to see John’s raised hand, and some part of him yearns towards him, towards Baker Street. The rest wants to step back into the sharp cold, and let it cut him through, over and over, so he can be the one bleeding out there on his own.

‘Hello, John.’

‘I got you a tea. How are you?’

‘Thank you. I’m very well. You?’

‘Yeah, good. Good.’

Sherlock unwinds his scarf and lets the Belstaff slide off his shoulders, so he can sit at the table nestled into the corner. John has left him the chair by the wall so he can watch the room. He always was considerate. 

‘How’s Anne?’

He is a hundred per cent sure that’s the new wife’s name, and John’s pleased smile confirms it before it falters, realising the question he is now honour-bound to ask in return.

‘She’s fine. She sends her love.’

Sherlock looks at his tea to avoid the hesitation before it comes.

‘And how’s…Jim.’

He can never say the name without that pause before it. Like he has to reiterate in every breath how much he’s only saying it to please Sherlock, or to pretend it’s all fine, because it’s the only way they can still be friends. Every time, it’s a reminder of how good things were, and how it’s Sherlock’s fault they’re not any more.

‘He’s Jim.’

‘Of course he is.’

They pretend the response makes sense. And it does. It shouldn’t, for normal people, making normal inquires about spouses, which is what John likes to imagine they do. But it does. Sherlock lifts his cup to sip his tea, and John turns his coffee in its saucer. They let the moment pass, signified by silence, until John’s too-wide smile breaks back over his face.

‘So! Christmas. You’re going to be in London this year?’

‘Yes.’ Sherlock puts his cup back down, and stifles a sigh. They meet often enough that this could be a purely social visit, but the set of John’s shoulders says it’s not. There’s something he wants to say, and only one thing it can be. It’s written in the distracted run of his electric razor lines, and the nervous excitement to his words, the energy Sherlock considers he should have registered the moment he walked in. He must be slipping. Getting old. ‘Congratulations, John. You and Anne must be-‘

‘- - how the bloody hell…’ John stops, as he always does. He restarts with a jerk, and the raise of his hand. ‘- no, don’t tell me, I don’t need to know. Thank you. We’re very happy.’

‘I see that. It must be…good.’

‘It is. It is good.’

‘Due…?’ 

He could answer his own question, but doesn’t.

‘April. Due April. A boy.’

‘Oh! Good. Good.’

And just like that, the spectre of the other one descends. Not a boy. Is it better that this one will be male? Sherlock doesn’t know; people are so oddly…well. No. Perhaps this time it’s obvious why it would be better. 

‘I should have told you before, but I haven’t…you’ve been away, haven’t you? Greece?’

‘Yes. And then the Maldives, until last week.’

‘The Maldives. That’s nice.’

Yes, John, very nice. Very expensive, and they flew on a private jet, to a private island with its private villa, with money Jim earned from murder, and extortion, and theft. And it was nice, until the mirror. Until the blood.

Sherlock misses London, even when sitting in the heart of it next to his best friend, who wears the place like a second skin, as Sherlock used to. The song Jim won’t stop humming rings through his mind.

‘I wonder if you’d consider being godfather.’

Sherlock raises his eyes. John is staring into his coffee. 

‘I want to be clear - we’re not naming him after you, before you start that again. But…godfather.’

‘You want me to be his godfather.’

‘Yes.’ 

John looks up. He’s older too, Sherlock realises, the lines deeper around his eyes. His hair is almost entirely grey. Silver, like the frost turning the city into a statue. How did he not notice? He’s slipping, and slipping, and slipping. He’s been distracted. ‘Just you.’

‘If something happens to both of you, godparents are traditionally meant to care for…if there’s no family, though I suppose Harry…’

‘Anne has family. You wouldn’t suddenly be adopting him, if…not with-‘

‘…yes. Of course.’

It’s a measure of their lives that not only do they have to make it clear that, should the worst happen, Watson Junior would not be left at the mercy of his godfather’s insane partner…but that such a thing might even be possible. Enough people have died to dispel any notion that families don’t get destroyed in one fell swoop, sometimes. In this case, at the hands of said insane partner.

‘Well? What do you think?’

Sherlock looks at John, marvelling that such a man exists. That even after everything, he would still ask.

‘Of course, John. I’d be honoured.’

They share a long look, heavy with shared history. Then John nods, once, sharp, and it’s agreed. Sherlock looks down at his tea.

‘So, how is he really?’

‘Worse.’

He is. He’s worse. It’s the truth.

‘Has he seen a doctor?’

Sherlock shakes his head. He doesn’t have the energy to state the obvious; that even now, Jim is so much smarter. He’d fool any doctor into believing he was perfect, just for the fun of it. Then he’d forget he’d seen them. Nothing would change, except by adding to the weight of Sherlock’s betrayal.

‘You don’t have to do it, you know.’

Sherlock stands up, and reaches for his coat. John shakes his head and takes his arm, quicker than he looks capable of.

‘Alone, I meant. I meant alone. Do you want me to come and see him?’

‘You’re not a psychiatrist.’

‘I don’t think one of those would do much good. But-‘

‘What could you do, John?’

‘Help you.’

‘You can’t help me with him.’

Sherlock pulls his scarf on, the weight of pointless words heavy across his nerves. A cold breeze shivers through the pub as someone opens the front door, catching it too hard and slamming it into the wall behind.

‘That’s not what I said, and it’s not what I’m offering. He’s past anyone’s help, he always has been. But you can talk to me if you need to. It’ll be better-‘

‘I appreciate the offer, John, but-‘

‘Sherlock. You do know that most people wouldn’t go near him, or you, after what-‘

‘Of course. And you don’t have to either. Good lu-‘

‘No. No.’ John’s on his feet, his jaw set. ‘You aren’t pushing me away. We’ve talked about this, Anne and I. I’m not…I can’t be near him, but you…I’m not turning away from you, Sherlock. He killed my family-‘

‘Your wife worked for him.’

‘-yes, thank you, I’m aware…I’m not forgiving him, you understand? But given everything, and Mary being who she was…it’s not _your_ fault, is what I’m saying. It’s never been your fault. You and he are not something I understand, but it must be something, seeing as…’

John’s jaw works. Sherlock thinks of Mycroft, lost to the game. Fallen on his own sword, finally outmanoeuvred by a madman with the universe in his eyes, and the British government held at ransom.

‘Seeing as what?’

‘Seeing as you can’t let him go.’

The Belstaff settles on his shoulders and he wraps it around himself, tying it against the ice that surrounds him.

‘You don’t understand, John.’

‘I’ve got that on a T-shirt somewhere, don’t I?’

He quirks a smile. They both do. _For Mary, John…_

‘I’ll text you. Have a good Christmas.’

‘…yeah. You too. Bye, Sherlock.’

The street seems colder than ever. It occurs to him, as he raises his hand for a cab, that an ear hat would be very useful right about now.

  

*

 

The flat is warm when he opens the door. Jim likes things hot. He once said he always feels cold; Sherlock still doesn’t know if that’s true, because he’s been touching him for years and never fails to burn himself on his skin. He hangs his coat up, and breathes in the smell of paint, and coffee, and the Christmas tree Jim dragged in yesterday, having disappeared for hours without a word, returning with a perfect Norwegian Pine and no lights or decorations to put on it. They’ve never had a tree before. Both of them think Christmas is stupid.

‘Jim?’

He’s not in the living room, or the kitchen. He’s not painting the Milky Way on the dining room wall, though his paint pots are open and a brush has been discarded on the mahogany table, congealing in a puddle of viscous white. It looks like blood. Coagulation time: an hour, Sherlock estimates. If it _were_ blood, he’d be able to pinpoint it to the minute.

‘Jim?’

He’s not in the enormous spare room they use as a library, and there’s no steam wafting from the bedroom door so he’s not showering in the en-suite.There’s no way he can’t hear him calling, unless he’s…

Sherlock pushes the bedroom door open, and looks over to the lump huddled in the bed. Black spikes of hair stand out stark against white pillows, the fingers clasped over one edge of the duvet almost as pale as the linen itself. Sherlock takes a deep breath in and lets it out slow, as he unbuttons his suit jacket and lets it drop to the carpet, his feet soundless as they walk.

‘Jim? Come back to me.’

He crouches by one side of their bed, so he can look straight into the huge, frightened, eyes. Touching is always risky at this point. Sometimes it brings him right back, and sometimes it makes him scream.

‘Can you hear me? Jim.’

Eyelashes flicker. Whatever he’s looking at, it’s not this room. 

‘Follow my voice. I’m here waiting. It’s all right. You’re all right.’

Sherlock remembers a time when doing something like this would be beneath him, unless it directly helped with solving a case. John taught him what it was to be human, and it’s Jim that gets the benefit. Not for the first time, he thinks it might be kinder to let him roam in whatever hellscape he’s in right now. If it was one of the times he looked like he was having fun, he might. Just for a bit. 

But he’s not having fun. He’s terrified, and Sherlock’s heart wants to burst. Jim’s hand trembles out towards the sound of his breathing, and he takes it with relief, letting it slide hot and feverish over his palm.

‘Sebastian.’

Sherlock bites his lip.

‘Where’ve you been? You’re fucking late.’

He nods, and pretends it doesn’t slice. ‘Sorry,’ he says tonelessly, and gets up to strip the rest of his clothes off, sliding into bed and wrapping Jim up in his arms. He’s humming again, and up close, gathered in Sherlock’s arms, the remains of moisture can be seen on his cheeks. Jim rarely cries. Only ever on the worst days.

‘I had a dream.’

‘What did you dream, sweetheart?’

‘That I lived in a flat, in London. And I couldn’t remember how you died. And I couldn’t remember where I was. And Sherlock was gone.’

It wants to burst. His heart. All of him. All of this.

He kisses the back of Jim’s neck; breathes in the heat and sweat of him, the fear shivering along goose-bumped flesh, the damp hair curled at the nape of his slender neck.

‘You know Sherlock will never be gone. He’ll never leave you.’

‘He should. He should. I can’t play with him anymore, Tiger. He’s not what he was.’

‘Why’s that?’

Jim’s drifting, eyes closed. If he had to guess, Sherlock would say he was in a desert somewhere, or maybe the Med, somewhere hot with his favourite sniper, some expensive hotel.

‘Loves me too much. I ruined him. I burned him to nothing.’

‘That’s what you always wanted to do.’

Jim’s humming again. Always humming. A smile spreads; a red, lip-bitten raw thing, tiny and sharp. A thorn dripping blood.

‘I wasn’t supposed to go with him.’

He smiles, and smiles, and he opens his eyes; the mad universe swims in water that tips over his cheeks, and Jim has never looked more gone, or more sad, or more beautiful. Sherlock kisses his mouth because if he doesn’t he’ll break in two, even when Jim’s clawing at his shoulders and head, and telling Sebastian to get the fuck off him, what the hell does he think he’s doing, since when doesn’t he keep his hands to himself? 

‘Jim,’ he says, because he can’t maintain this lie. ‘It’s me. Listen to my voice.’

But Jim’s calm and loose now, dozing a thousand miles above the earth, tethered to the reality in his head only by the arms wrapped tight around his body. Sherlock watches and watches, and waits for any sign that he’s coming home. And when none comes, he closes his eyes and floats with him, unable to be anywhere else.

  

* 

‘Sherlock?’

‘Yes?’

‘I was in the dining room.’

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t know where I was.’

‘I know. But you remember now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go back to sleep, then. I’m with you.’

He kisses the back of Jim’s head, and floats along with the sound of that song.

‘Jim? What’re you humming?’

‘Wait and see, darling.’

 

*

 

He wakes to the sound of that song.

It takes a long time to realise what he’s hearing. His whole body feels weighed down, as if Jim filled his limbs with sand in the night. The bedroom is dim, grey, pre-dawn. It’s raining on the skylight and against the big windows in the living room next door, and Jim is a curled, tousled sun in his arms, blazing and sticky with sweat. He’s not humming, now. He’s singing tunelessly under his breath, along with…an actual song. The thing Sherlock’s been listening to for months. It emanates from the speakers they have dotted in the walls of every room, quiet enough that he can hear Jim, loud enough to get in the way of any other thought.

‘ _If I leave here tomorrow…_ ’

Jim’s words barely make it over his lips, but they’re perfectly in time. Sherlock places the song in the 70s by style and tone, but he has no idea what it is. It doesn’t matter.

‘ _…would you still remember me?’_

Jim’s face is very white. His hair is too dark against it, and his eyes are somehow both sharp and unfocused, glittering with a manic light. He’s not moving, except fingers twitching gently to the beat of the music, making the duvet shift as he brushes it. Sherlock doesn’t move; everything’s very warm, too warm almost, too hot, but Jim is nestled perfectly into the curve of his body, pressed into him all the way up, secure in his grasp. 

Sherlock leans to kiss his cheek. Jim smiles, as Sherlock registers that his skin is like ice, the sweat on it shining with cold. Light disappears as his eyes close.

‘You were supposed to be my rival,’ he says quietly, over the sound of weeping guitar. ‘Not a private nurse.’

Sherlock swallows, his senses waking up enough to quicken his pulse uncomfortably, throbbing it against the thin skin of his neck. ‘It’s you and me, Jim,’ he says back, and means it; no matter what he thinks sometimes, he means it. ‘And whatever that needs to be.’

‘It doesn’t need to be this.’

The guitar swings towards the next verse. Jim brings his hand from under the duvet so he can pick notes out of the air. His fingers are covered with blood. A lot of blood. Sherlock thinks he’s opened the cuts from their holiday, but there’s _too much blood_ for that.

‘ _Bye bye baby, it’s been sweet, love…’_

‘Jim.’

Fear crawls up his throat. He can’t breathe. Air can’t get past the lump, and it’s his eyes that fill with water this time. 

‘Jim.’

‘ _Please don’t take it so badly…_ ’

‘What have you done?’

Jim sings on, sweet and broken, a hint of red at the corner of his lips. Sherlock can’t stop staring at the hollow of his cheek, the shadow underneath the bone from where the skin pulls tight, and then falls away. 

‘ _If I stay here with you…’_

Sherlock peels the duvet back. His mouth opens in a silent gag, all the air pulled from his lungs. Everything is red. Everything is blood. The heat, the stickiness; all Jim, pouring out of his veins and soaking into the sheets, dulling the blade held in limp and twitching fingers.

‘ _things just wouldn’t be the same. ‘cause I’m free-‘_

It’s too late to do anything. There’s no coming back from this. Sherlock face crumples as his brain - his rock-solid, never-wrong brain - supplies the harsh and obvious truth. 

‘ _as a bird, now_

_and this bird_

_you …can not…’_

_‘_ Jim.’

‘ _change.’_

His voice can’t drag out the word the way the song does. He’s only half in the world, stuck to Sherlock’s chest, limp and soft, only a rag doll now. His hair is so soft on Sherlock’s arm; his smile is so peaceful. The insanity dances in his eyes, but he looks happy.

Sherlock wants to die. He’d rather die, than see this.

‘Jim, please don’t.’

The corner of his mouth comes up. His eyelids are drooping. His fingers stop playing the notes, and finds Sherlock’s hand, stuck to the blood on his stomach.

‘I wouldn’t change…any of it, Sherlock. Not a thing.’

A sob wants to burst from him. He buries his face in Jim’s soft black hair, breathes him in alive as the grasp of his fingers can’t hold, and falls away.

‘You were always my favourite- -‘

‘I love you.’

‘- distraction.’

‘Please don’t. One more…please-‘

He can’t borrow John’s words, he just can’t. But Jim is smiling like he knows anyway, because they always could read each other’s minds, and he’s just done it for the last time.

The guitar is crashing into a solo. Jim catches Sherlock’s eyes and lets him fall into the stars once more; the black, glittering expanse of the universe that was always just for them.

‘It’s been sweet, love-‘ he whispers, the words somehow still in tune, breathed along a spider’s thread and winding into Sherlock’s memory, a moment already gone, already over; a life ended, a star winked out of the sky. 

  

*

 

John comes to his funeral. It’s held two days before Christmas, and they are the only people in the church. The priest had asked for details of his life to give a speech, favourite hymns, all the _normal_ things. Sherlock told him, curtly, that he wouldn’t have wanted any of it. That _he_ wants none of it. How dare anyone try to sum Jim up in a five minute eulogy…and anyway, there would be no one to hear.

He didn’t expect John to come. In the end, they spend the time standing next to the coffin, staring at it in silence. The vicar says a prayer, and that’s it. He leaves them to it. Sherlock would walk away except he can’t, he can’t, he can’t _leave him_ and he can’t breathe, and nothing makes sense.

John takes his hand. 

‘One day,’ he says, fingers warm, and dry, and solid around his palm. ‘You give me his eulogy. You tell me why he was in your blood.’

‘I-‘

‘Not now. When you’re ready.’

John doesn’t let go of his hand. Sherlock doesn’t walk away. Jim lies in front of them, covered and still, his voice at last quiet. Ready to burn, and then be released to the air.

Sherlock puts a hand on the coffin. It reaches back to him, letting him touch. He can dream that Jim’s fingers are on the other side, hovering next to his one last time.

‘One day,’ he says, and lets John lead him away.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is [Free Bird](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=np0solnL1XY) by Lynyrd Skynyrd.


End file.
